


fuck you and fuck your jungle

by rikkitikki



Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Biting, Bloodplay, Branding, Breathplay, Chastity Device, Dacryphilia, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Feminization, Fight Sex, Forced Orgasm, Gangbang, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, Marathon Sex, Masochism, Multiple Orgasms, Mutilation, Objectification, Orgasm Denial, Psychological Torture, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Snowballing, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violent Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-04-27 09:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5043259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikkitikki/pseuds/rikkitikki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how great a fuck he is or how much he makes you come your fucking brains out, you have to remember to hate him. None of that Stockholm bullshit. Play him like he plays you. Remember how much you hate him.</p><p>(indulgent self-insert fic for the guys, holla)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"C'mon, stay with me." His nails leave gouges in your side, but it's the next roll of his hips that drags a reaction out of you, muscles in your back jolting while you whimper on his dick. Fuck him, he's good. Fuck him for _being_ good. Fuck him for knowing he's good, too, laughter hot against the back of your neck. "You still with me, baby? You got this. You can do this."

From anyone else in nearly any other situation, the encouragement might be nice, considering he's quite literally fucking the breath out of you; your throat is held tight in the crook of his arm, and every snap of his hips makes it that little bit harder to suck in a breath, drives the hard edge of his wrist just that little bit further into your windpipe. He isn't letting up this time. Maybe it's the time he finally kills you. Riding him reverse cowgirl (or is it cowboy?) in this dingy little shack, blindfolded, arms tied up with his belt, you'll finally die - he'll probably keep you drifting in and out, enjoying the way you squeeze around him differently when you're slack and unconscious or when you're fighting savagely for breath. He'll push you too far. You'll die like that, and he won't even notice until he's come, fucking your cooling corpse until he's satisfied. When he realizes you're dead, he'll shrug and toss your naked, abused body in with the rest of them, and you'll be dumped out for the animals to pick at, and that'll be it. That will be the end of you.

Sweet fucking escape.

Vaas always seems to know when you're trying to space out, though. You're midway through imagining yourself decomposing in some bizarre bodhisattva trance when he angles you forward and _grinds_ into you just right, barking laughter at the trembling that wracks through you, the sob of pleasure you can't quite bite back.

"I'm sorry - am I boring you?" He gets his free hand on your cock, squeezing near the base. Vaas ignores the way you jump at his touch, which is never good. Being reactive usually calms him down, if only a little. "Is this not fucking good enough for you, baby? You're _bored?_ "

You start to shake your head and say _no_ just to placate him, but his grip on your throat suddenly goes vicelike, cuts air off entirely. Nothing gets in or out. You're going to die.

"Shut up. You know, that's the problem with you American fucks - you talk too much," Vaas drawls, stilling inside you save for some mild rocking, feeling you start to fade. You're only putting up a cursory fight anyway, letting a little instinct fuel your thrashing. Your death throes have to be satisfying for him, or else he'll just put you through them again and again until you do it right. That gives him more time to change his mind. You don't want that.

You've been on this godforsaken island so long, and you're so, so tired.

"You need to talk less." Another thrust that sets sparks behind your eyes, little lights that prickle in the growing blackness. (Like the night sky here, hundreds of miles from civilization, the sky is so beautiful here.) You hardly feel when you shift forward, arms dropping loosely at your sides, and you're even less aware when Vaas pulls you back against him skin-to-skin, free hand roaming sweetly up and down your body even as he strangles you. "Think less. That's your fucking problem, hermano, you're always _thinking._ Trying to hide in some bullshit happy place. You think it's ever gonna work?"

He licks along your racing pulse, sinking his teeth in slow. (Probably gauging your level of consciousness. Is he smart enough for that? He's a lot smarter than you initially gave him credit for.) The pain is distant, someone else's; you're light as a feather in a body dying second by second. His words could be a hallucination, some crazy Space Dementia Bowie bullshit your brain is making up to occupy itself as it dies. They sound sweet. A warm lull to put you to sleep, lips brushing against your jaw, this must be a hallucination.

"You think I'm ever gonna let it?"

Air. It's awful, no matter how clean and wonderful it singes your lungs when you gasp for it, or how it rocks your system and makes you grip his cock in a way that has him hissing with delight - instantly you start to scream _no no no,_ you were almost _there,_ you were so fucking _close,_ but the only thing you manage in your current half-strangled state is a wordless slur of noise that has him laughing. Your arms are mostly numb and completely useless, a little purple, and Vaas has no problem guiding the two of you to the floor, letting you sprawl bonelessly against the rough bamboo mats they use for flooring around here. _No no no,_ but he has even less trouble hauling you up by your hips and pushing in again, fist in your hair to keep your head down while he fucks you. Face down, ass up, fingers twitching helplessly, half out of your mind with despair and simmering with hatred.

This is how he likes you. No matter what ridiculous new position or depraved kink he wants to try out on you, it always ends up like this, you on your face while he watches you twitch and cry out.

"He's alive!" He gives your ass a hard slap and pulls out completely, grinds up against you instead, pulls your blindfold around your neck. You wince against the dying light filtering through the window, but the real reason he does it is probably to watch you hide your face. "You had me worried there, amigo. Thought maybe you fuckin died on me for a second." Another slap. You don't cry anymore because you're pretty sure it turns him on, but he won't see the way your eyes prickle at this angle. It's from frustration, nothing else. The weeping dried up a long fucking time ago for you. "Face like that, mouth like that, ass like this - you're real fucking special. Be a goddamn shame to lose you early, amigo."

Another smooth roll of his hips puts him balls deep, but where you're expecting savage fucking he only rocks smoothly, rubbing a bandaged palm up and down your spine.

"That's it, baby. That's it." His necklaces drape across your back, stubble scraping when he kisses faux-sweetly between your shoulders. Like you're lovers. Like you're not constantly plotting escape, in one method or another. Like you don't fucking hate him, and in turn, like he doesn't fucking hate you in his own way. It's tempting, sometimes, to just let it take you - the delusion that you really are special, that he really does care about you. You have nothing else left in you but hate and exhaustion. It would be so, so easy.

Remember how much you hate him.

You have enough feeling in your arms to prop yourself up on them, and Vaas takes the opportunity to lave hot, open-mouthed kisses up the curve of your neck, just enough teeth to get you sighing dully. It would be easier if he were selfish, just fucked you and got it over with - and he does, sometimes, when he's in a shitty mood or fiending - but more often than not, he's like this, bouncing between humiliating and condescending to you, fucking with your head, telling you what a good little whore you are for him.

You fucking hate him. His hand on your dick gets a choked _uhn_ out of you, hips rocking into the touch, and you hate him, you hate him so fucking much.

"You gonna ask for it?"

"Nnhh--please." It's not what he wants, mechanical and insincere as it is, and he gives a sharp little thrust that reminds you what you _could_ be having if you'd only cooperate.

"No no no _no._ Fuck, man." Another sharp move, another, another - he's not fucking you in earnest, you'll never come like this. Worse, he'll never come like this. "You think I want to hear that bullshit? Fucking lies? You wanna fucking lie to me? I clothe you--"

He's half-crouched now, has the room to fuck deep and slow the way you like it, the way that makes your toes curl.

"And I feed you--"

He swirls his thumb over the head of your dick, and fuck, fuck him, fuck this fucking place, you want it, head down and thighs trembling, clawing lines into the floor.

"And I fuck you--"

He knows where your sweet spot is no matter the angle, and now he snaps his hips in the exact _right_ way and listens to you moan for him, traitorous hips stuttering back into him in a press for more.

"And this is the thanks I get?" Vaas tsks, digs his nails into your ass and drags red lines across your skin, fucks short and hard and swallows your gasp greedily, chin against your shoulder. "This is how you fucking thank me? Try again, motherfucker. _Once more with feeling._ "

There's only so much of this you can take, and he knows it. He fucks you slow and deep and snarls a warning in your ear every time you reach for your dick, gives it to you the way you like it, and takes your little gasps and noises as indication to go harder, pound here, bite there. Plays you like a fucking fiddle. You're a wreck a few minutes into this, nails digging into the bamboo mats until you think you might've broken one, his hand in your hair to keep your head up and force you to listen to yourself. You could rival any porn star just on sound alone while he reminds you that _you fucking like this,_ you love it when he does this to you, you always do. You always get to this point. You always end up asking.

There's no point trying to hold out. He'll do this all night if he has to.

"Please--"

"You're wet like a fucking girl," Vaas interrupts, pushing your hips down to rub your dick in the mess of precome you're making. "What? Was that? Can't fuckin hear you, amigo."

" _Please_ fuck please please - Vaas--"

His next thrust is unintentionally hard, steals your breath in the best and worst possible way while his own picks up, a ragged huff against the back of your neck like some great predator about to make the kill. He probably could, if he wanted to. If he bit hard enough. Like leopards do.

"Yeah? Please what?" But he's picking up the pace, hooking his boot against a corner of the floor mats for extra traction. He's always in boots and fatigues for this, and now you can appreciate the way his zipper scrapes against sensitive, slap-reddened skin. "Pleaaaase? What?"

"Fuck me."

"All together."

"Please fuck me." Another rewarding thrust; your back arches beneath him, but he's not done yet, not satisfied. " _Fuck_ me, fuck me, please--"

And all at once, it stops. In a flash he's hauled you up against him by your throat, knees straining from the effort, rising bruises screaming where he squeezes. You reach back, grab his hips; he has to fight not to jerk into it, gets some kind of sick satisfaction when you can't help responding to him. You're still, eyes shut, waiting for him to lead you like the good bitch you are, but he says nothing for a bit. He hums against your shoulder instead, just lets you feel every burning point of contact and accept the knowledge that this is happening. The angle is uncomfortable, but for the minute or so he just sits there, you hold it diligently.

When he turns your head, you know what he wants. Big bad fucking pirate king really likes to kiss, apparently, and you know how to play him just as well as he plays you; you know he likes it when you moan into his mouth, likes having his lip bitten and his tongue sucked at, really fucking likes it open-mouthed and messy and hot, and that he can kiss for-fucking-ever before he's satisfied. Today isn't one of those times, though - he breaks off after a minute or so, tucking his mouth just under your ear, voice low and rough in a way that, shamefully, makes something clench in your gut. "Tell Daddy how you want it."

"Hard." It's the right thing to say, his hips jolting just a little. You lay it on a little thick, rocking back against him, feeling the muscles in his stomach jump until he has to still you with a growl. Get it over with. Just get it _over_ with. "So fucking hard."

This is how you keep going, keep stumbling through day after hellish day without letting him break you, this right here. You can take Vaas. You can get the upper hand, he's not invincible, he's going to fuck up sooner or later, and you can see it plainly enough in the way he grips your hips hard enough to bruise. You're going to die, or you're going to kill him. Getting off this hellhole of an island isn't even really a goal anymore. All you need in this life is to see Vaas die.

"Careful." His control is fraying, he means, and he hates it. He hates it when you do this shit to him. "You don't--"

" _Please,_ " you moan, and you both know it's fake, but it doesn't matter when his dick jumps like that. Now for the coup de grace. " _Daddy._ "

Your face is in the floor and your ears are ringing from the impact, and Vaas is _fucking_ you, has your arm pinned behind your back and his other hand around the back of your neck and slams hard enough to rattle your teeth on every thrust, words abandoning him in favor of broken multilingual snarling. Big bad pirate king likes his pretty piece of American ass, and you're glad your bark of laughter sounds a lot like a moan instead - and then he shifts his hips and angles differently and has you _screaming,_ finally gives you what your traitorous fucking body has been wanting this entire time, and god, these times are the best, the least horrific. You're riding a wave of sensation and Vaas is finally shutting the fuck up, stumbling over broken words in Spanish you don't really understand except for _bitch,_ occasionally _pussy. ___

The other thing about Vaas is that he takes fucking forever to come. You don't know why. He's not exactly telling. He can fuck a lot longer than you can, though, and you know better than to jerk yourself off because he won't stop for you to recover, will make you take it no matter how hard you fight or how much you scream and beg - better to make it last, pace yourself. It's like sprinting a marathon versus jogging. Sometimes he jerks you off and makes you take it anyway, but he seems to be a little more lenient today, so wrapped up in pounding you into the fucking foundation that he can't think to be his usual sadistic fuck self.

If this were anyone else, anywhere else, this would be good. Instead it's a fucking insane pirate asshole raping you while making you pretend you want it, and no matter how great a fuck he is or how much he makes you come your fucking brains out, you have to remember to hate him. None of that Stockholm bullshit. Play him like he plays you. Remember how much you hate him.

When you come, you're face down in the floor and digging your nails into his thighs, babbling half-nonsensical things punctuated with his name - you're glad he didn't do this in front of a mirror this time, because at least this way you don't have to see yourself fucked out and sobbing his name, don't have to see the way his reflection grins back at you every time you make the mistake of opening your eyes. Coming without being touched takes for-fucking-ever and only Vaas has ever been able to do it to you, but it's a full body affair, starts in your toes and twists your stomach until you can't make noise at all, mouth hanging open, tight around him in a way that gets him stringing obscene Spanish against the back of your neck - Christ, it's good. The world hisses out into shades of white and grey, you only vaguely hear yourself howling, and Vaas gets so wrapped up in what he's doing to you that he's close before he knows it. Nothing is real, every horrific thing that's happened or will happen to you is unimportant. The body at your back could be anyone, any other man in the world. You can almost pretend you're someone else.

Back in the beginning, you used to beg him not to come inside. Now you prefer it over getting it in your hair or face, because honestly, you've already got whatever fucked up shit he might have. In his words, he's already emptied his balls in you enough for a fucking lifetime, so what's one more time?

When he comes, he bites. This time it's the back of your neck, hard enough that you feel skin split and blood rise, but the endorphins haven't filtered out of your system yet - the most it does is have you shivering while he whines and moans and comes hard enough to tremble, vocal in the way you would love from anyone else. You know he's not faking this, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck, pressing himself against your back while he pumps slow and rides his orgasm out. It's the final insult, that you get him off so hard. 

Like always, he pulls out and flops to the floor beside you, arm thrown over his eyes as he sucks his breaths and puts himself back together. Like always, you just lie there and keep your eyes shut, ignoring the slick feeling of lube and come starting to drip down, and beg whatever unmerciful asshole of a god there is that he just gets up and leaves.

Now isn't one of those times, and unmerciful asshole god lets you down one more time. Vaas yawns, rolls onto his side and drags you closer, half spoons and half lays on top of you while you stay slack and stare at the ceiling. This little shack is his, or you're pretty sure it is - maybe it's just where he keeps you, because he doesn't bathe or eat here. There's no AC, nothing to do, and the spiders that get in sometimes are big enough to carry off a small dog. One room, one bathroom. Door locks from the outside and only Vaas has the key. There's a TV and a few VHS tapes you've seen about a thousand times each by now, but for the most part, you like to lay on your little mattress and sleep the day away.

You should consider yourself lucky, probably. You were in the cages once, and you know that there are worse places in and outside this camp that you could end up. The man licking at the blood on your nape says otherwise, you think.

"Mm. That was good, huh?" Of course, you don't answer. He sucks at the wound and feels you tense beneath his tongue, but you're too unbearably tired to do anything about it, even play at resisting. "Real fucking good. You like that, baby?" When you only mumble something noncommittal, eyes shut, he casually hooks an arm around your throat and pulls you back against him - too sleepy to really kick your ass for it, but awake enough to threaten it. "I asked you a question."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes," you breathe, fuck this guy, fuck him and his fucking fuckawful jungle, fuck him, "it was good." Vaas seems only barely satisfied, rolling his eyes and biting at your shoulder, tucking himself against every inch of your back. 

"Got the slut fucked right out of you, huh? You were crawling all over my fucking dick earlier, but it's fine. It's okay." He yawns again, keeps you against him by the throat while the other hand roams across your stomach, your chest, lower. You keep your eyes on the barred-over window, the last few slivers of daylight slipping over the treeline, and try not to let him feel you curl in on yourself. "Couple more rounds tonight, we'll fix that."

Maybe the next time will be the one that finally, finally kills you.


	2. Chapter 2

You didn't go into this looking to be an insane pirate king's fuckboy, though. Really, you wanted to spend your post-college gap year doing something that sounded important.

"Wildlife conservation on islands in the Caribbean" was the name of the program; it cost you four grand not including plane tickets and you ended up in a group with other gap years also looking for something easy and important-sounding to put on a resume, all twentysomethings with money to burn and nothing better to do. The program was supposed to be a month long. They took you out by boat from the nearest populated island, took you to the Rook Islands' shore, and promptly sold you off to insane pirates. Crammed in bamboo cages, knowing none of your families were quite wealthy enough to play the exorbitant ransom, you cried and begged and screamed right along with the rest of your group. One by one, they began to disappear - some became ill and died, others were sold off. By the time only a handful of you were left, you made a desperate bid to be the hero.

The first time you met Vaas, he cut off two of your fingers.

___

As it turns out, fighting with a pirate for his gun and shooting him with it isn't such a hot idea when you're still locked in a cage and everyone can hear the gunshot. You were desperate, though, and grabbed the opportunity before really thinking it through - you're still desperate, but a little more resigned, considering you've been in this cage by yourself for days now. No food, no water, just strung up to wait for the boss to get back. "A little more resigned" is actually more like you're half dead from dehydration in the sweltering tropical heat, drifting in and out of consciousness when it suits you, listening to the pirates' chatter when you're awake enough to parse it. Mostly, they talk about it burning when they piss. Sometimes they talk about shooting people. It's almost unreal, the hell you've ended up in; this doesn't _happen_ to people in real life, and the Army is going to come rescue everyone, right?

International waters, you find out later. Political headache, the pirates can't be touched. You cuss the government the way your grandfather did, but quieter, in case the pirates come check in on you.

When the boss gets back, it's to mild fanfare - you see jeeps, more pirates than ever, some thug with a shaved head hauling himself out of a car and heading for the wooden building at the center of the camp. Later that night is when they come get you, two burly men dragging you up to that house with your hands tied and your mouth gagged. Inside, it isn't all that spectacular; maps scribbled all over, a TV blaring Maury, a fucking lot of what you think might be coke, a radio in the corner babbling pirate chatter, and the last room on the left. When the door opens, you find yourself squeezing your eyes closed.

"This is him?" A guy with an accent, not like the other guys you've heard so far. The pirate at your back mumbles an affirmation, and then you find yourself shoved into a chair and tied there, earning yourself a backhand when you try to struggle. When they're done, they step back. You don't open your eyes. The room is quiet until you do, a tense sort of silence that only breaks when you look up at him.

"Fucking Rambo, huh?" the man you'll later come to know as Vaas says from across the makeshift desk, ammo crates stacked up between you and him. Shaved head, dressed no different than any other pirate, but there's something about his eyes that puts you on edge instinctively. Later, you'll realize it's the same feeling you get when faced down by a wild dog, not sure whether to run or play dead. "You wanna be a fucking hero, huh? You been causing trouble in my camp, you take a shit in my toilet?"

You don't answer. He giggles in his throat, an absent noise he doesn't seem entirely aware of, and steps around the crates.

"Now, uh. Amigo. Hermano." He bends slightly at the waist, looks you in the face, searches for the fear in your eyes. When you turn your head, he takes you by the jaw and turns it back. It's hard. There are going to be bruises later. "Pay attention. I really - really don't like to repeat myself."

He gestures to one of the pirates, who slices the ropes on one of your arms and holds your hand down on the crate. Vaas produces a knife, fingering the edge while he listens to you start to scream.

"Can you be quiet, please?" You don't listen, keep begging - later you'll learn that when he says quiet, he means _shut the fuck up right now,_ but this is your first lesson. He glances at your spread hand, and without warning, brings the blade down on your right index finger.

It's sharp, but not enough to get all the way through the bone. Vaas has to twist the knife into your first knuckle to work the rest of the way through. All you really remember from that moment is his laughter, the sound your bones made when he tore it off the rest of the way. You see enough blood in your peripheral that the world starts to fade a merciful black at the edges, but Vaas has plenty of experience with this, backhanding you across the face hard enough to whip your head to the side.

"Where you going, hermano? Where the fuck you _going?_ " Another backhand keeps you from fading, and then he drives the knife into your middle finger, sawing viciously while you scream. "You want to forget about this, huh, you want to fuck off? _Fuck! You!_ "

He keeps going, keeps ranting, but the words fuzz into static in your head - you are _missing two fucking fingers_ and Vaas is just talking, stabs the knife into the crate and rants and rants. Fuck you. Fuck your momma. Fucking Rambo wannabe motherfucker. Fucking hero. He's not expecting you to be conscious at this point, you think; it's the only reason he lets his attention slip from the knife, picking a lit cigar out of a glass ashtray.

It's your only chance. You don't expect to survive the next few minutes, grabbing the knife and jabbing it into his gut, but that doesn't matter. You're not getting out of here alive anyway.

The problem is, your grip is slick with blood, weak from pain - and Vaas, as careless as he seems right now, has incredible reaction time. You barely feel the blade nick him before he's got nearly all his weight slammed on your arm (you feel your bones creak), knee digging into the crook of your elbow to make your hand spasm and the knife fall loose. He's got his thumb pressed into the soft space between your eye and orbital bone, his face in your face, and you wait patiently for the moment he kills you. Let it happen. Do it, motherfucker.

He's laughing. He's laughing in your face, digging his ragged nail into your eyelid.

"Stupid - motherfucking - American boy." Right in your face, close enough that you can smell the gasoline on his clothes and tequila on his breath. "Stupid. You think you're gonna get out of here and go back to your momma's nice house, huh, you think you can win. All of you just - you have this fucking _delusion, _right? You think you get to be the hero."__

"I don't want to be the hero," you remember slurring, adrenaline slacking enough that the pain starts taking over. _How am I going to type now?_ runs through your head, ridiculously enough, but you're babbling through it, eyes rolling out of focus. He lets you slip under, hands still gripping your face. "I just want to punch you in the fucking mouth."

You're going to regret that later.

___

After that, he started calling you badass. You woke up in your cage with your fingers wrapped up, wondering why the hell you were alive at all, and every time Vaas would walk by, he would call you badass. _Hey badass, how you holding up? Huh? Carlos, get badass some water. Let's see that pretty face, badass - those boyfuckers in Taiwan want a picture. Smile for the camera._ He's the only person who has ever given a fuck about you on this island, and for so long, you could never figure out why.

Later, you realized that he wanted to snuff the fire out in your eyes. You bent, but never broke under the regular beatings, the biting flies, the hot tropical rain that nearly choked you for how humid it was, the scorching sun - other prisoners came and went, filled and emptied the cages, but you were resilient where they weren't. You weathered what they let kill them. You suffered everything this fucked up place could throw at you and came limping out the other side, miserable but alive, cramming down your food and drinking your water and biding your time. Even when infection set in and you drifted feverishly between life and death, bad as bad merchandise can be, he was the one to hook his thumb in your jaw and shove the pills down your throat. Even when one of the beatings left a gash that the flies got into, he was the one to notice and call in a local doctor to clean you out.

It was a miserable few months, but you _lived._ And he noticed. The food started getting better. Someone tossed a ragged pile of old blankets into your cage, and you slept on them every night. A gallon of water a day, and they didn't tie your wrists anymore, knew you weren't lively enough to break out of the cage on your own. Even if you did, you wouldn't get far. (You waited for something to happen, needed a distraction before you made a break for it. Someone else had to live on this fucking island, somewhere.)

You thought it was kindness, maybe sloppiness, but he was only getting you strong enough to survive his full attention. The first time he fucked you was bloody and horrific and violent, both of you barely able to move - the second time was almost gentle, with him murmuring praise when he wasn't busy licking away your tears.

___

"Do you know," Vaas begins, strolling out of sight behind you - trying to crane your neck and follow him won't work, so you don't bother. "Why you're still alive?"

"Because of you."

It's the answer he expected, you can tell. Vaas chokes on a little laugh, and you answer by twisting your hands against the rope nervously. You're tied to a chair in what looks a lot like a basement, its floor splotched with what you're reasonably sure are old bloodstains. This is where you die. This is when he opens your throat or chainsaws you into pieces, and as tired as you are, you're still terrified. If you die now, after all of that suffering - all the _work_ you put into making it out alive, what the fuck is it worth? No one will know. No one will remember how hard you fought.

Except Vaas. His hands wrap around the back of your chair, knuckles brushing against your nape.

"Cut the fucking foreplay. I don't like that answer, amigo." His voice is a casual hum, hands playing an uneven drumbeat on the back of your chair. "You are alive because of _you._ Because you're too fucking stubborn to die. Huh? Huh?"

"Yeah." You try and limit how much you speak to him - less of a risk of accidentally offending him that way - but he's got you by the hair, craning your neck back until his upside-down sneer is all you can see. "Ff-fuck, _yes,_ just - fuck, are you going to kill me?"

"You wanna live. You," Vaas says, ignoring your question entirely, "are a survivor. Got your fingers hacked off, so what?" He lets you go, steps around front so you can see him shrug loosely. "Stuck in a cage waiting to die, but you have all the time in the fucking world to memorize patrol patterns, huh? You're smart, amigo. You--" He taps his temple, his smile small and knowing and so unbelievably threatening, coming from a man like this. "--are a thinker. You watch. You learn."

You do. He's been watching you too, it seems like, and the promise of escape seems further away than ever. You keep it out of your face as best you can, but he sees something in your eyes that makes his smile edge a little further.

"Vaas." He meets your uncomprehending stare by dragging a chair close and sitting in it backwards. The wood is fire-scorched. "That's my name. You know why I'm telling you? Like why I give a fuck if you know who I am?"

"Why?"

"Because you're like me." He laughs before you can say anything, does that weird hyena-like giggle snicker of his. "No, no. Really. You and I, we are _thinkers._ Survivors. Most of the men who end up in those cages? They're bitches. They beg for food like dogs, try to fuck the guards. They humiliate themselves for us because they can't live without their fucking modern comforts, you know?" He waves dismissively. "When they come back out, some part of them has died here."

Vaas clicks his tongue, pointing at you.

"But you man up. You just fucking _deal._ I like that, hermano, I really like that about you. I _admire_ that. You come from the same places they do, you've been raised up on your momma's tits, but you're not like them." He hums, mulling over his words, looking at the bandaging on his knuckles. They're bloody, but it doesn't look like he's hurt. "That has kept you alive."

"That's why you haven't let me die."

Vaas fixes you with a _look_ when you speak without being prompted, eyes like polished gems in his head. (Glassy. Is he high?) After a moment, he only taps his finger to his lips, _shhhh._ Be quiet. Don't talk yet, he's not done.

"So I thought about it. About what you said." He thumbs over his bottom lip, watching the way your eyes track it. "And I thought - what the hell? Let's give the motherfucker a chance. Let's see if he's just been really, really fucking lucky."

"What do you--" is about all you get out, and fuck, the guy is _fast,_ kicking your chair over and snarling right in your face, holy shit. Holy _shit._

"I said _shut the fuck up!_ Okay? You get that? You understand the words I am fucking speaking to you, prettyboy?" You don't answer. This is apparently wrong. " _Answer me!_ "

"Yes! Fuck!" There's spittle in your face, even more when you turn your head to the side and he forces it back, laughing. "Yes, I get it, I'll shut the fuck up. I'll shut the fuck up!"

"Unless?"

"Uh--" You scramble for a suitable answer, clenching your eyes shut. "--unless you ask me something?"

"Good enough." But he isn't getting off you, keeps you held by the jaw, and you're afraid to open your eyes. The pounding in your chest isn't entirely yours, you realize; he's crushed right down on top of you, his racing heart pounding against yours. Jesus Christ. Maybe he's just waiting for you to fuck up and talk again. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

You freeze for a moment, and it's all the time he needs to decide you're being uncooperative - you hear movement, feel something sharp dig into the space just under your eyebrow, and both eyes shoot open as Vaas carves your face with a scalpel.

"Listen up, motherfucker." Your screaming is annoying, so he claps his free hand over your mouth and continues slicing, dragging a white hot line from your eyebrow to your temple. "Shut. Up. Listen, I like you? But when I tell you to fucking do something, you do it. I'm the king of this fucking castle, okay, you get that? I say jump, you say--?"

He lifts off your mouth, and you stumble out _how high,_ earning a laugh and another series of slices into your cheek. "That's good. Good boy. Look, I'm trying to do something fucking nice for you, so can you - fucking - cooperate? Please? Hey, _hey,_ stop moving so much, my letters are going to look fucked up. You want me to do a do-over on the other side?"

It feels like forever before he pulls back, unwinding the gauze from his fist to wipe away the blood - soak it up where it's been collecting in your eye, brush off the cuts, inspect his work. When the gauze soaks through, you actually feel him _lick_ at you. He's a fucking animal. You're still making noise, although it's mostly low and unintelligible.

"Okay. Okay." No explanation, no prompting, he uses the scalpel to cut your ropes and walks across the room. You're up as fast as you can reasonably be with how stiff you are, stumbling over your own feet for the exit. The staircase is behind Vaas, who makes sure you're looking before dropping something heavy on a wooden crate.

A gun.

"So! Here's what we're going to do, amigo." Vaas turns, comes to a stop about ten feet away from the crate, spreads his hands. "This? This is your _chance._ There's free fucking air right past this door! A little jetboat with a full tank of gas! It's all waiting for you _just outside this door,_ hermano! You're gonna get to punch me in the fucking mouth, just like you wanted. You get past me and this fucking nightmare is over."

The gun. The arena-like basement you've found yourself in. The spot he's standing. Fucking hell, he's planned all this out. Vaas watches you for a moment, gauges your reaction.

"No weapons. No knives--" He throws the scalpel into the far wall. "--nothing. You kill me and it's all over. I'm even giving you a gun, huh? You get to this, you can just..." He makes a finger gun, closes one eye and looks at you with a little _pow._

But you're not stupid. Not stupid enough to think that there isn't a catch somewhere, anyway, no speaking for your genius escape plan a few months back. You wipe blood out of your eye, fingers dragging over the aching wounds.

"What if I lose?"

Oh, but he's delighted that you're thinking that far ahead. Vaas pops his neck, gears up for a fight you can't possibly win - unless you get that gun.

"Relax - I'm not gonna kill you. I'm just gonna do whatever I want with you." You don't ask for clarification, which seems to disappoint him a little, but he lets it go. "This is like a boss fight, huh? You beat me, you win. You lose, you don't get out. And I don't do retries, amigo."

You don't wait for him to say go. There are support beams all around this place and you put them between yourself and Vaas as you bolt, giving you a few precious moments of surprise to get yourself closer to that gun. Vaas whoops and charges, his voice cracking and echoing painfully off the walls of this dank little hell; you're half-blind, but he's also behind you now, so as long as you can stay moving, keep the beams between you--

You hear him trip. You're barely aware of your own insane laughter as you charge forward, but it seems his trip was more of a _leap;_ he grabs your ankle and sends you to the concrete; you feel your teeth click, you taste blood, but you kick his hand away and keep crawling. The box isn't that far, you're just feet from it. You're so close. He grabs again, but you kick him in what feels like the face, get another few precious inches in. Feel the rough wood underneath your fingertips.

This time Vaas has traction when he grabs you, yanking you by your ankles back towards him, and you feel the concrete drag a rash across your wrist and palms as you fight it. Your nails are broken and jagged by the time he pulls you close enough to grab, and the moment he leans in, you dig them right into his fucking face. It's not much of a deterrent, and a blow to your cheekbone is what you get in turn.

He's trying to knock you out, hits you again, but by now fight-or-flight has taken hold and turned you into a wild fucking animal. You don't remember much of the fight later on, but you remember biting and being bit in turn, clawing and being clawed, spitting blood in his eyes like some kind of fucked up defense mechanism. You get your hands around his throat. He punches the concrete by accident, and you drag him into a vicious headbutt; both of you half-blind and dazed, you fight and fight until your strength starts to fail where Vaas' doesn't, to fade amid all the blows to the head where Vaas only drops a knee in the center of your back, pinning you. You have a concussion, you're sure. Maybe multiple. Everything aches from some kind of wound, a sprain or a bite or what could very well be a fractured wrist, and you're _still fighting,_ overturning the box to make a mad grab for the gun.

It falls just out of reach. Vaas only has to lean in and slap it away, and then he's hooking his fingers above your cut eye and clawing, and half the world goes black. (You realize this with a detached sort of logic, _I must be half blind now,_ like you're fucking Spock or something.) He grabs a handful of your hair and only has to slam your face into the concrete a couple more times before you stop fighting, sprawling on top of you to trap your weight with his, face buried in the crook of your neck as he pants.

"Give up, amigo." You reach out with your bad wrist, and he twists it until you yelp. "Give it up. You _lost._ "

You're too out of breath to answer properly, but he catches a ragged _fuck you_ somewhere in there, twists your head and bites over your pulse in a way that feels primal, sucks a mark there that you know will be blue tomorrow. He holds you there, straddles your ass, watches you once again trying to drag yourself away, towards the door this time. You're so close.

"So fucking close." Vaas shoves your shirt up and yanks your pants around your thighs and you realize he's undone his belt, palming his dick while he watches you try to escape. "So _fucking_ close."

"No." You barely have the breath for it, definitely don't have the energy to struggle, but you try on both accounts anyway. Funny, but it's hard to really grasp the horror of the situation when your eyes won't quite focus, so you end up slurring it again and again, _no no no._

"That's good, keep begging." He spits, smears his fingers through the mess of blood you're both soaked in, and shoves two fingers up your ass with all the care and finesse of a fucking wrecking ball. The hurt is no different, really, a little more intimate - your entire body is one throbbing nerve, and the rough way he fucks you open registers only vaguely, twitching fingers the only thing that shows you feel it at all. Vaas stretches you only as much as he strictly needs to, enough that you won't both be in an agonizing amount of pain for this; you hear him sigh as he takes himself in hand, and then again when he spreads you open, lining himself up. "Keep begging."

It's not a good fuck. You hardly feel it, except for the burn every time he slams his hips against yours; you're barely even conscious throughout, but Vaas keeps talking, obscene shit that drifts easily in and out of your head while you lie there waiting. Waiting for him to finish, waiting to black out, waiting to die, always with the fucking waiting. Nothing happens fast on this island.

It's the blacking out that comes first, and Christ, it is merciful.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be 2.2 instead of standalone. Why you gotta be like that with the chapter numbers, ao3.
> 
> ( Also this is one of those "not gonna have a happy ending" fics, mind the tags )

Who knows how long you're out after the fight, but you've checked out completely; everything hurts or aches or stings, you constantly have the taste of blood in your mouth, and consciousness comes in dreamy, second long vignettes of voices and movement. Even after you're mostly alert, you don't try to wake up, and you haven't opened your eyes again since you remembered where you are.

It takes Vaas nudging you with his boot to bring you back to life, pressing at your sore ribs until you groan and open your eyes. Eye.

"Good morning, starshine," Vaas chirps, cheery in that shitty way of his, sing-song like this is something he heard off TV forever ago, like a radio jingle. "The Earth says hello. I know you're awake. Get the fuck up."

The two of you are in some little shack, you laid out on a bare mattress in the corner, him lowering himself to sit cross-legged beside you. Are those fucking flowers? Not exactly a bouquet of roses, but he's got a handful of anonymous tropical flowers sitting on the floor beside him. He's covered in bandages, lip split and brow wrapped in gauze, taped-down spots over his arms and chest where you must have bit him. Of course, he seems in a decent mood.

"Yyyy--" Your voice doesn't want to work. He waits patiently for you, watching intently while you clear your throat and work out how to make human sounds again. "--you didn't kill me."

"Uh. No?" Like you're stupid. He raises his eyebrows, shrugging. "I said I wasn't going to, hermano. Maybe you forgot that part."

"What did you do to me?"

"You mean beating your ass or fucking it?" He's so casual about it too, with his bandages and bruises on display for everyone to see. Like he's peacocking. Like he's showing off his victory. "Be more specific."

That's all the answer you needed. You're quiet, and surprisingly, so is he - the silence stretches out for a good minute or so while you recall what you can, testing your limbs. They're weak, but your arms work enough to push yourself up with a wince. Just a few inches, just to see, and then you're back on your mattress and staring at the ceiling.

"You tried real hard, amigo." Vaas reaches over to pat your leg like giving condolence. You jerk it away from him, confirming that your legs still work too. "Hey, hey, don't be like that. You're fucking alive, right? You're in one fucking piece, right? Doc says the eye is pretty fucked up, what, you want me to apologize?" In a falsetto: " _I am very sorry._ Now you can quit being a bitch about it, huh? Re _lax,_ hermano."

"Fuck you." He can kill you if he wants. Right about now it would be merciful, honestly. You close your eyes (well, apparently just eye now) and will yourself back into unconsciousness, sleep, a coma, anything to get away from him. His hand drops to your knee again, and again you try to kick it away.

"Fuck me? I brought you flowers." His hand doesn't shift. If anything, it curls a little tighter. "I gave you a shot. You almost made it. What the fuck is your problem, exactly? Do I need to spell out how fucking ungrateful you're being right now?"

" _Fuck you,_ get--" His hand isn't budging at all, and in fact, he's gliding it up the inside of your leg. You jolt, but he's expecting that - Vaas fits a hand on your collarbone and holds you down like a fucking mouse, leaning over you while he watches his fingers drag over vivid, blue-purple bruises. Panic turns your stomach to knots, and the elbow you jam into his solar plexus to push him away is practically no resistance at all. "Get the fuck off of--"

"Shut. Up." That hand on your chest slides up to your throat and digs into the pressure points behind your jaw, locks it before you can finish your sentence. "Okay? I'm trying to be nice here. I am trying to be _nice._ But here you are, in a fucking bed, with real fucking medical attention and everything, still breathing my _fucking air,_ and you want to tell me to fuck off? In my camp? In my shack?"

His grip tightens. You hear something in your jaw creak.

"You think you have the fucking _right?_ " He throws your head down and tuts, waving at the flowers. "I brought you _flowers._ Get well flowers. I'm doing all this for you and you want to be a fucking cunt about it, huh?"

You should be more grateful for all the nice things he's doing for you, he says. You suppose you should also be grateful for the way his weight sinks down onto the mattress, or how he slaps the inside of your thigh to make your legs snap open again, or maybe how he muffles your scream into his palm, tearing off a strip of your bandages to gag you with. Catching the knee you try and slam into his stomach and pushing it aside, he buckles down, lays between your spread legs and all up and down you, tucks his mouth against your neck.

"That's fine. I thought about - no, I _expected_ that from you. What the fuck are you gonna do, huh? You're American." A wrist in each hand, he pins them on either side of your head and sighs, like you're causing him so much trouble here, like _you're really going to do this?_ "Look, I'm really sorry you didn't make it. I was really, really rooting for you. Fucking Rambo motherfucker, even got your hand on the gun. You put up a good fight."

He licks at the spot under your ear, chuckles at your flinch.

"You are in a lot of physical and emotional pain right now. Just let it happen, amigo." He sits up, straddles your waist so you can't roll away, and has no real trouble flipping you onto your stomach. This time he rips a strip off one of the sheets, pinning you down wrist by wrist to tie your hands behind your back. "Because I feel bad for you, I'm gonna be gentle this time."

He speaks softly, but there's something fucking evil in the way he can do that while he gets ready to rape you ( _again,_ your thoughts helpfully supply), in the way he can pretend he's doing you a real nice favor by not tearing you apart in the process. It's some fucked up head game shit. You miss your cage, your blankets, your tedium and waiting and watching, the days when Vaas ignored you completely, and you sink your teeth into the gag, biting back rage and humiliation as he strips you. Your shirt is shredded, tossed aside; the pants live to see another day, slung carelessly across the room while Vaas touches you intently. He's laughing, thumbing appreciatively over your hip, he's fucking _enjoying himself,_ and you've never hated someone so much, never.

It'd be better if this were violent. Instead, he's dragging his palms across your skin and warming you up, making you painfully aware of wherever he touches. When you try to lay flat, he only hikes you up onto your knees again and gives your ass a slap. After the second time, you stop trying.

"That's good, that's good. It's gonna be so much easier if you just give up, you know?" You can hear the grin, burying your face in the mattress to shut his fucking voice out. "Let me be nice to you. You like this, baby?"

Your snarl is instinctive, and Vaas just laughs and laughs, leaning over to mouth at your shoulder. "You like that name, huh? I was gonna go with Princess, but fuck, whatever gets you pussywet."

You hate him, you hate him. He sits up on his knees and pulls you up, lying down in your spot, lying you on top of him; this way he can grind lazily against your ass and lay your head across his shoulder, kiss at your throat, can feel every single reaction you give him. His hands are rough, drawing mindless featherlight patterns across your arms, chest, stomach, everywhere he can reach; certain spots get more of a reaction than others, and he traces over those often, even draws threatening little circles around a nipple. _Don't,_ you say, forgetting about the gag, and shake your head instead, don't, don't.

He doesn't at first. It's a few more minutes of touching before he twists it anyway, hearing you gasp. You have to listen to him rumble a hotter laugh as he wraps his arms around your waist instead, holding you against him.

"You're waiting for that door to fly open, huh?" It's barely above a whisper, so quiet and intimate that it turns your stomach. "You're waiting for someone to kick it down and say, _we're here to save you._ Aren't you? Somebody to shoot me in between the eyes and save you. American boy needs a knight in shining armor right about now."

You're not hard, but you're not entirely soft either. The first touch is a fingertip dragging from base to tip, and you hate how your hips jerk into it.

"But nobody's coming for you. Your momma probably thinks you're dead. Nobody comes five miles near this place by ship. I own this island, I own everything on it." He goes on sing-song, and you shut your eyes against the burn. "You get that? _I'm all you have._ "

The first tear tracks down your face on the non-scarred side; Vaas licks it away, shushing you even as he sits up and moves you, lays you on your back again, unties and reties your arms to a bolted down chair not far from your head. "Shhhh. It's okay. Just let it out, it's okay." He kisses your forehead, whispers into your hair like a lover. "Keep crying. Just like that."

You're not expecting him to blow you. You're finding out quickly that you can't really predict what this psychotic fuck is going to do next, but getting your dick sucked definitely wasn't up there on the list of possibilities - he takes his time kissing and biting at the insides of your thighs, eats up all those reactions and sounds he tears right out of you. Sex, you'll learn, is as much about the giving to Vaas as it is the taking; he likes to see people squirm and tremble under his attentions almost as much as he enjoys the actual fucking, and unless he's drunk, the foreplay is always unbearably long and thorough. You're wired for touch by the time he actually gets around to sucking you off, and there's no chance in hell that you can keep your hips down, fucking up into his mouth with a dragging groan.

He doesn't even choke. _How much dick does this guy suck?_ and _shit fucking hell_ war in your head while he pins your hips down and keeps going, and you have to look away, can't handle how much of a shameful turn on it is to see him going down on you like you paid him for it. Can't stand the way he looks up at you through his lashes, gauging your reaction while he tries different things and finds out what you like. Can't even really think about the time you risk a glance and see him with his eyes closed, brow drawn in concentration, doing some fucking _thing_ with his throat that lets him go deep. He's really, really good. You hate him even more for it, for not being clumsy and awful.

"You like that?" His voice is rough when he pulls off, sickeningly self-satisfied, sweeter after he trails kisses along your cock and makes you hide your face in your arm. You're aching hard by now, but it's not really a point of guilt; with a mouth like his, you didn't really have a chance. "You look real good like that. Real fucking good. Think you're good to fuck?"

The answer is apparently yes, even if you shut your eyes and try to ignore him; he tosses his shirt aside and only tugs his fatigues down low enough to get his dick out, hooking an arm under your knee to tilt you back a bit. "Of course you are, just look at you. You're a fucking mess."

There's lube this time, and he uses a lot of it - works you open, admonishes you lightly when you tighten all over in an effort to keep quiet ( _Relax, loosen up a little. How am I supposed to fuck you when you're all fucking wound up like this, huh?_ ); he's getting impatient though, getting sick of being so nice, growls lightly and fucks you with three fingers steady and quick, hitches your leg under his arm and lines up. More tears on your part, and for all the cringing away and _no no no_ through your gag, don't do this, fuck, _please,_ don't do this - through all of that, he only tsks when he has to realign.

He's slow about pushing in. It could be mistaken for care, but when you glance at him through your lashes, you realize he's just savoring the moment. You lost. He wins. This is his prize, this is what he can do to you whenever he wants to, and there's next to nothing you can do about it.

"I, uh, I usually don't do it face to face," he confides in you, plain and honest, "so be a little fucking appreciative here, okay?"

A million horror stories of what happens when you go bareback flash through your head as he bottoms out, which is virtually painless - a little uncomfortable at first, but he can hold your hips up and keep the angle good, it's honestly unfair how strong he is - and you think of all the times the pirates outside talked about having the clap, talking about all the shit the local whores have, and all the people a man like Vaas can fuck whenever he feels like it. It doesn't help that Vaas is humming appreciatively, already starting a pattern of short little thrusts.

"You ever get fucked before, prettyboy?" He rumbles another little laugh, leans over you and lets you feel his weight. "Nice and tight in here. Be a real fucking shame if you were some used up road whore after I put in all this work, right?"

Right. Close your eyes, turn your head, but Vaas isn't exactly fucking _rushing_ here, making all these little adjustments until he's completely satisfied with the pace. Long, slow rolls of his hips, supporting you on his knees as he sets a fist into the mattress and rocks forward, his necklaces barely brushing your chest in a steady back-and-forth swing. Close your eyes, turn your head, but you can't shut out the appreciative little sounds he lets out while he fucks you, can't do anything about it when he ducks his head and licks a stripe along your collarbone.

Shut him out, but he digs his fingers into your hips and rocks into you hard - and you _whimper,_ some obscenity turned to nothing but consonants, heels digging into his back. Vaas takes the moment to bend your knee nearly to the mattress beside you as he leans in, just holding there. This close, fit this tight together, the two of you might as well have one heartbeat between you. One pair of lungs, at least until he snickers this awful little laugh in your ear. He digs his teeth into your throat and rocks again, brushes the spot that has you huffing hard against his temple - when he pulls off with a wet pop, you know the mark is some kind of sign of ownership, high up so everyone can see. You still haven't seen what he cut into your face. Does this ever fucking _stop?_

"Good. So good." He pulls back, sits up, tugs your hips back into place. "Hold on tight. I'm gonna fucking ruin you, baby girl."

You have to twist your sprained wrist hard not to scream when he starts fucking in earnest, but noise still ekes out in gasps and bitten whimpers - with all the care he's taken, it's not long at all before it starts to feel good and only gets worse (better) from there, your heels digging into the small of his back while you hide your face in your arm and choke down what noise you can.

"That's not gonna work, amigo." He doesn't drag your face back, just shifts his hips and shoves your legs a little further apart (you're going to be so sore tomorrow), seems like he's concentrating on something - and then his dick pushes _just right_ and drags sparks up your spine, and the next moan is impossible to swallow, his hands sweeping down the curve of your arched back. "Found the spot, huh? I told you, baby - I keep telling you, but you just don't want to fucking listen. You think, _Vaas, Vaas, you can't break me,_ but the truth is, you're gonna learn to like this. No, you're gonna learn to _love_ it." He has to talk louder when _every_ drag of his hips has you weak-kneed and wailing, twisting under him like a live wire, but for once he doesn't seem to care that you're interrupting.

"Even if you did get away," he murmurs low and sickly sweet, stilling, rocking hard into you, "you're never gonna be able to get fucked again, _puta._ Not by anybody else."

It's the last real thing he says for a long time. Picking up the pace, snarling obscenities in your ear while the fucking gets rougher, wilder, he makes you take it until the muscles in your thighs burn and your hands start to fall asleep; the sounds of sex drown out the jungle birds and shouting as the camp moves, thinks, builds, the whole world oblivious to what's going on inside this little shack. He makes you sigh. He makes you sing. He tugs the gag around your neck and listens to you while you beg for him to stop, and then while you're begging him to put the gag back in, unable to stand the sounds you're making.

"That's so _cute_ \- you really think I give a shit what you want, huh?" He hooks two fingers into your mouth instead, letting you muffle yourself while you suck on them. He tastes like motor oil and cigar ash, and he gags you a few times by what you're pretty sure isn't accident. "Listen. _Listen._ I'm gonna untie your hands, and you're gonna play nice with me, okay? You try to run and I'll fuck you out there where everyone can see, swear to fucking god."

He reaches up and yanks the knot loose, and you make yet another poor decision that you won't realize the full ramifications of until later - you immediately punch him in his fucking mouth, and while he's reeling, you shove him off of you and half-run, half crawl to the bathroom door. When he gets his hand around your arm (he's so fucking fast), you do what any reasonable person would do in this situation: you grab the lamp on the bathroom counter and break it over his head.

Normal stuff. _Fuck you, you psychotic motherfucker,_ you half-remember saying, grabbing the body of the lamp to bludgeon him over the head with. You even get a couple shots in - glancing blows at best - before Vaas grabs the lamp mid-swing and tears it out of your hands, crowding you up against the wall with his hand around your throat. Now he's gonna kill you, now he finishes the job. You're not sorry. You get a look at him, expecting the worst.

He's happy. The motherfucker is grinning his ass off. Or maybe he's not happy, just entertained, enjoying himself despite the blood running down his face from a new gash in his forehead. "You! You are something else, amigo!"

It takes a second to realize that he's not trying to headbutt you - by then he's already got his tongue halfway down your throat, pulls back before you can bite him and yanks your head back, bites and bites and bites along your throat and shoulder until you're half-soft again, trembling from a dozen bloody gouges while he licks them clean. (Maybe those will get infected. Maybe it'll kill you.) Vaas licks at your teeth, puts the taste of blood back in your mouth.

"I'm gonna beat the shit out of you and fuck you until you cry and you're _still_ trying to kill me. That is - that is fucking beautiful, man. That's real commitment." He bounces your head off the wall and watches you slump to the floor, still conscious but dazed, and then he starts moving. "It's like I'm trying to fuck a tiger. Don't move."

Whatever he's doing, he's quick about it. You have time to roll onto your back and blink at the ceiling before he starts to drag you by the arm, drops to his knees and pins you down by the back of the neck like you're a fucking cat, and drags his cock against you - of course he's still hard after all of that. It's just aimless rutting though, apparently giving you time to come back fully. "Wake up, hermano. Wake up and look."

Pain - he's torn the bandage off your face, and now he grabs a handful of your hair to drag your head up, letting you recognize your reflection in the dingy, sooty mirror. There's you, on all fours and bleeding from just about everywhere, gaunt and leaner than you were months ago; there's Vaas, a sheet of blood running between his eyes and down his face, licking at it whenever it hits his lips.

"Look."

You don't have to be told. The realization hits you dumbly, eyes following the rough, red lettering that stretches across your cheekbone and under your bad eye, still packed with gauze.

The motherfucker carved his name in your face.

Your arms won't hold you. Vaas waits for that first, perfect moment of realization to shove his cock into you again, absorbing your dumb look of horror with a satisfied noise that borders on sexual.

"You see?" His hips slap yours. "See?" His hand scrapes up and down your spine in a mock-soothing gesture. "The whooooole goddamn world is gonna know whose bitch you are. They're going to look at you and know. Just... know." Vaas leans over your back, sets his chin on your shoulder and watches you watch him. "Christmas dinner at grandma's is going to be awkward, huh? _Oh, that? Vaas is the man whose cock I kept warm on all those lonely nights._ "

When exactly your arms give out you don't know, but Vaas is there to hold you up, an arm wrapped around your middle in a wretched mockery of a lover's embrace. This is what he wants, you realize; he wants you to crack, wants to destroy you in the only way that seems to work. Pain, heat, hunger, all kinds of discomfort - you can handle that. But this, though--

"Shhhh. Don't cry, baby. Don't cry." He licks another tear away and murmurs in your ear, hips already pumping. "You're gonna come back from this. You're a fighter. A _survivor._ It's gonna take so much more before I fucking break you, prettyboy."

He lowers you to the floor, face down and ass up, and keeps his word - he's gentle, only as rough as you like, doesn't even seem to mind that you shut your eyes to keep from watching. Worst of all, he coos encouragement to you the entire time.

_That's right, just let it out. I know how good I'm fucking you._

_You're doing great. Like a pro. You sure this is your first time? Second, maybe?_

_Between you and me, this is some of the best pussy I've had in a while. Don't tell the girls in town, huh?_

You're just... numb. Right now, you're numb inside and out except for the steady fucking, and when he shifts his hips right and hits _that_ spot with some regularity, you don't have the energy to muffle yourself. Every single time, your eyes fly open; every single time, you see yourself marked and moaning, face flushed, eyes hazy while he watches, and you have to twist your head away and ignore his laughter. Once you just _give up,_ Vaas really gets to work on you, pumps your cock out of time with his thrusts and rubs that spot under your balls at the same time as he hits it with his dick, makes you see fucking _white_ while he takes his time, is taking forever to get off. After a certain point, he grips your waist with both hands and raises up in a half-crouch so he can fuck harder. The first time you reach for your dick, he slaps your hand away.

"Don't touch yourself. You fucking come when I want you to come. If I _let_ you come." His breath is picking up along the nape of your neck, words a low grind in his throat. "Gonna have to teach you the rules. Gonna carve that shit into your soul. Carve it into your fucking skin if you don't learn fast enough."

This man is insane. This island is insane. The whole fucking _world_ feels insane right about now, putting you in this hell for no apparent reason except bad, bad luck, and it's unfair, and it's sick, and it's so goddamn wrong that no one else you've been with has been able to fuck you as good as this no matter how much you liked them, it's so wrong, it's wrong, it's _wrong._

"What's wrong?" he says over your shoulder, genuinely thrown off - you hadn't realized you were talking out loud. "What, you want to move? I'm not gonna be this nice all the time, this look like fucking UNICEF to you? Don't get used to this shit. But we can move. What, you want it on the bed, on top, how you want it?"

 _You're gonna come back from this._ He has no fucking idea.

"On top." The words almost hurt to say, but you need all the leverage you can get with him. "Want to ride you."

"American boy knows his shit. You finally warming up, ice queen?" He doesn't seem suspicious, sitting up, looping an arm around your middle just in case. "Come on, I'm not gonna lay on this hard ass floor."

The absolute last thing you want to do is be on top, but maybe if he thinks you're cooperating - maybe, you think, straddling him on this awful springy piece of shit mattress, he'll screw up. Vaas is watching you intently, but the moment he lines up and you sink down onto him, his eyes slip closed and he groans, guard down. One of those moments is all you need, just one, just at the right time.

It's deeper like this. He digs his nails in your hips and bounces you in his lap, and it's good, it's so fucking good. Both of you are tacky with tears and sweat and blood, making your skin stick together at points; your neck and shoulder throb almost unbearably, you're still sore from the fight, you're tired, every joint and muscle in your body is crying for you to stop, but you keep going. You're a survivor, after all. You know he must be getting close when he grabs you by the wrists and drags you down into every thrust, and that's good, because so are you; he brushes against the right spot by pure accident and you don't muffle the moan, feeling disgusting even as you slam his hips to the mattress and keep him fucking _right there, right there._ He lets you, laying back to enjoy the show for a few moments; you're crying again, letting it happen, _let it out,_ fucking yourself on him like he's not even there, and you are weak, so weak. When you get out, when people see your face, you'll always remember this moment, guilty and depraved.

"Fuck, _please,_ " you sob, and suddenly his hands are on your hips and he's slamming in hard enough to make you accidentally bite yourself, growling, actually _growling out loud._ You forget about his rules, reaching for your cock again, and this time he slaps your hand away with a dog-like snarl rather than words. You're going to have to ask him, the fucking prick. "Please, please--"

"Please _what?_ " You start to stumble out something about wanting to finish, but he barks laughter, fucks into you even meaner. "Don't give me that fucking flowery bullshit. _I want to come on your dick, Vaas._ Say it."

You shake your head, it's just too much, but he's relentless. You don't hold out long. "I w-want to c--fuck! _Vaas!_ " And he groans and growls when you call him by his name, but he's not going for it, knows your angle. "--on your dick."

"You wanna what?"

"Come."

"Try again."

" _I want to come on your dick Vaas please Jesus Christ,_ " you snarl, but it's not enough for him, nothing is enough for him.

"Ask _nicely!_ What the fuck do you want, baby? Tell Daddy what the fuck you want."

Sick, wrong, depraved. Awful, horrible, fucked up as fucked up can be, but you say it, a near unintelligible slur of _please please let me come on your fucking dick, I need it, god, please, Vaas, I need it,_ and he groans from deep in his chest, shoves you off and flips you over and fucks you face to face on your back - licks his way into your mouth, and god, you let him. You let him.

In the end, he never actually touches you. That's probably the point, showing you that he doesn't even have to, knows your body better than you do (and how the _fuck_ did some jungle psycho ever get that good anyway? Has he done this before, how many times has he done this?) and knows what you need. You come so hard you go fucking blind for a second, you swear to god - you might not even be conscious for all of it, your body pushed past its limits and letting you slide, for a few long moments, into oblivion.

You're already hooked. Even when he keeps going and too good becomes _too much,_ clinging to him with arms that don't want to work correctly, the afterglow is incredible. Breathless. Weightless. Your mind is miles away, probably floating somewhere in the Caribbean, and everything is alright for a bit.

You're robbed of it when you remember he's not wearing a rubber.

"Don't come inside--" He just _keeps going,_ expression twisted up like he's trying so hard, close enough to taste it; his grip is bruising, unrelenting, and when you try and push him off, he just huffs what sounds like a laugh and keeps going, keeps going. You're wailing at him that it's too much and _please pull out_ and he just keeps _going,_ jerking you off despite the sensitivity. You're young. You can come back pretty fast. He knows it, pushes you through the waiting period and forces you to get hard again, and god, it's too much.

It's as _fucking good_ as it is _fucking painful,_ and it's pretty goddamn fucking painful. This is probably what they call masochism, huh?

Coming the second time is a process, a slow horrible build towards an apex you're almost afraid of reaching, and by the end you're shouting _pull out pull out god no pull out_ \- he purposefully starts pounding your prostate again, and that's it, that's it. It hurts. It's awful. It's so fucking _good,_ powerful in a different way than the first one, and just when you're to the point of begging for death, Vaas finally, finally fucking comes. Inside.

Of course he does.

He takes forever to wind down. When he comes, Vaas lets out this choked cry and clings tight to you - buries his face in your neck and smears your blood together, trembles and jolts and cuts little half-moons in your back with his nails, breathes in your ear like a man nearly drowned. It sounds like it's almost painful. He's also a cuddler, apparently. Holds onto you even when he relaxes, pulls out, and promptly flops back on top of you. Neither of you can move. You're half delirious, just start talking to no one in particular, forget for a moment that this man is a killer and a rapist and all sorts of other horrific things.

"I can't feel my legs."

"That's how you know you did it right, amigo." He licks at one of your bite wounds, and you know he must be a nightmare, smeared in your blood and his own like some fucked up war paint. "It was good, right?"

"Don't fucking do this." You try to roll away, push up onto your side like you're going to get up, but he easily drags you back and throws an arm around you. His forehead pressed against your spine, his fatigues scratching you up whenever he moves, and he holds you down and close like some sort of huge, psychotic dog. "Please. Don't."

"Don't be like that. I just rocked your fucking world."

"Fuck off."

Every time you think he's going to kill you, _should_ kill you, he seems endeared instead. "You think lying to yourself is gonna do jack shit? No. No, no, you're smarter than that, baby. Can I call you baby?"

"No."

"You know, I think I've been pretty fucking nice to you." He grabs your cock and squeezes, watches the way you jerk away and whimper, _no more._ "And, uh, pretty thoughtful of your psychological condition here, but there's only so much disrespect I'm going to fucking take from you. Cut the pouty bullshit."

You don't say anything, but he seems to accept that as an answer. _Hmmmm,_ and he tucks right up against your back, spoons you with his legs tangled with yours, an arm thrown under your neck so you can use it like a pillow. Like you love him. Like he loves you. Like the warm body at your back is a comfort, his breathing something to lull you to sleep.

It does, eventually.


	4. Chapter 4

After the day he put you in the shack, you tried to kill him. Four times.

At first, he would send regular guards to come check on you, pass you food, make sure you hadn't hung yourself from the showerhead. That stopped after you managed to kill one, take his pistol, and shoot a couple more; you managed a few dozen feet into the treeline before you triggered one of their perimeter traps and hung upside down from a tree until Vaas came back to deal with you. Fucking Rambo. Rambo boy. He took you back to the shack and beat the absolute shit out of you, then left you to patch yourself back up in his absence. None of the guards came near your shack again after that - they just cut a slot in the bottom of the door and slid food trays in.

You told him that you were looking for him, broken blood vessels turning the white of your blind eye a murky red, something in your hand broken under his boot. You told him you were looking for him so you could blow his fucking brains out.

The second time, you waited for him to come, tried to strangle him with electrical cords you ripped out of the wall. He _threw you over his shoulder_ and to the ground, stomped your hand and re-broke it. Fucking crazy boy. You're crazy, boy.

The third time came when he was fucking you, when you tried to tear out his throat with your teeth. You left a scar; he knocked out a couple of your teeth and fucked you over and over again, made you come until your orgasms were dry and your throat hurt from screaming. Fucking psycho. Prettyboy's going native.

The fourth time, you spent weeks carefully hiding and sharpening a ceramic piece you broke off the tub. All the other furniture was bolted down or would only be good for a suicide (and you thought you would die eventually, but didn't want to go out without taking him with you). You waited by the door for ten hours, shank held at the ready; Vaas reached _around_ the doorway and you only stabbed his hand, gave him time to bolt in and disarm you.

That time he wouldn't forgive so easily.

___

"How the fuck did you _know?_ " The ceramic knife is on the floor; Vaas kicks it away, blood dripping from a gouge across the back of his arm, and shoves you against the wall while you scream the question in his face. He's inches from yours, teeth bared. His breath smells like whiskey. "Fuck! You! How did you _know?_ "

"I saw you through the fucking window, hermano." Vaas rolls his eyes, shoves his palm in your face and grinds your skull against the wall. "You ever think of that? You have a contingency plan in case of fucking windows?"

You don't really cry anymore. There was a lot of crying in the beginning - how long ago was that? A month? Two? _More?_ \- but now you barely even make a sound when he beats you, take your knocks quietly and wait for him to leave. You don't talk to him unless he asks you a direct question. You're still loud during sex, but you don't hold onto him, just lay there until he finishes and leaves. Those wires you tore out means you don't get cable anymore, but you have a VHS player and a small collection of tapes. You watch those a lot, leave them playing while you lay around just to drown out the noise of pirates shouting outside. All this time alone means you've built yourself a respectable workout routine, too, start getting definition where the beer and cheeseburgers used to be. Vaas likes it (licks your come off your abs and has you kiss him), but he's been more careful now that he sees you're getting stronger.

Now you turn your head and stare at the far wall rather than look at him, and he takes the opportunity to lick at one of the many, many bite scars you carry around nowadays. "You just keep fucking trying, huh? You do that when I'm gone too? Lay in your little bed, spend hours thinking of new ways to off me? Do your little crunches, pull your little pull-ups, just _dreaming_ of the day it works. Huh? Huh?"

Yes. The two of you are at a point where you don't have to answer each other's questions aloud, sometimes. He knows your body. Knows when he's right.

"You need a fucking hobby." He takes you by the neck and throws you further into the shack, kicks the door shut, locks it behind him. "Am I gonna have to go Misery on your ass? Break your fucking hands so you'll be civil with me?" This is the build up to a beating, so you turn and look him steady in the eye, waiting. Sometimes you fight, sometimes you don't, sometimes he brings a taser to keep you from getting too wild. "What the fuck are you trying to do here, hermano? You think you can just go back to your pretty little life? Pick up where you left off?"

He walks to you, keeps moving, crowds you against the bathroom door in a move you're not expecting. He's never quite done this before, and you bet your life on the ability to memorize the patterns in people. Maybe he sees your alarm, but he doesn't smile.

"You _think_ you can come back? From _this?_ " Now he laughs, this strangled little chuckle as he shakes his head at you, picks affectionately at your shirt. "No, no. No. This island is inside you now, hermano. It _changed_ you. Made you different from alllll those motherfuckers back where you came from." He leans in, slides his palm underneath your shirt, his mouth at your ear. "You kill me, then what? Hiding under the bed so you don't fall out when the nightmares come? Snap and kill a motherfucker because you smelled something that reminded you of here?"

His leg between yours, thigh grinding slow against you. His fingers dragging your shirt up, the other hand gliding along the line of your pelvis as he bites at a nipple. "Just _give up._ "

Your hand scraping across the shaved part of his head has him stopping cold, expression open and guileless when he looks up - when you take his face in your hands and thumb over his lip, you remember that he's not the hulking monster you make him out to be in your head. He's just a man. A fucking crazy man, but a man, and in this moment, you remember how young he actually is. Can't be too much older than you. Might have _been_ you at some point, before the island got in him.

He's unusually pliable when you pull him close and kiss him, mildly alarmed, definitely on his guard - but there's nothing you can do to hurt him, or threaten him, or kill him, nothing in arm's reach to beat him with. He's searching for the method you're going to pick, eyes sharp on you even as he lets you slip between his teeth. Kissing is something he loves - it's also something you almost never do, because that requires effort and doing more than the absolute bare minimum it takes to keep him satisfied. You stare right back as you kiss him, a hand cradling his jaw as you urge him to angle his head differently. Open up a little more. Set his hands on your hips so he has something to do with them. Basic directions.

It's not fucking. It's not even really foreplay. He still sighs all satisfied into your mouth, letting himself get wrapped up in a hot and heavy makeout session while you calmly watch him, letting him paw at you however he likes while you do all those little things he likes best. Bite and tug at his lip, make noise, kiss him open - hot and heavy and without finesse, until he's groaning for it, forehead against yours.

"What the fuck got into you?" You don't answer, just laugh mildly and tip your head back, letting him get at your neck. "What's your fucking game, man? You gonna try punching me out? No - you know better. So what the fuck are you doing, hermano?"

Don't answer. Kiss him again, again, slide your hand along the small of his back and down, press your hips together so you can feel him hard against the inside of your thigh. He's into it. He's pawing, he's working your pants down, he's grinding against your stomach. There's no warning when you pull back and bring your mouth to his ear, and there's no hiding the nasty, awful glee in your tone.

"I'm making you walk out of here with a fucking boner, hermano."

You headbutt him. The fight that follows is a quick one, your nose broken as you curl in on yourself on your shitty hut's floor and nurse what you think might be a broken rib, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't _matter._ You laugh hysterically as Vaas slams the door shut with a chunk missing out of his hand and a raging fucking hard-on, cussing beautiful broken Spanish as he locks you in. Your nose is still pouring blood and you swallowed enough out of the meat of his palm to make you sick, probably, but you're still laughing. You're still fucking laughing at him. The island is in you, and you can never dream of going back home now, but you're _still fucking laughing at him._

You're going to suffer for that stunt, but oh, oh. It's the little things.

___

"It's Vaas."

He's not talking to you. He's outside your door talking on a phone, and he knows you're sandwiched up against the door listening. You haven't heard another human voice besides Vaas' for months now, and even a snippet of the outside world will remind you that it exists.

"Yeah, fucking _really,_ who the fuck else would this be? Yeah. Uh-huh. Listen, I'm calling in that favor, but amigo, you're gonna like it."

You hear his footsteps as he ambles aimlessly, probably nursing a cigar. His hand will be bandaged, and he'll have to hold it weird, and he'll hate you all the more for it. "No, you're _really_ gonna fucking like it, no bullshit. I'm having, uh - dog troubles? No, no, not a real dog. It's a fucking metaphor. My basement boy's real stubborn, you know? I want you to teach him some manners."

Someone new? Someone Vaas is apparently on decent terms with, which means nothing good for you. Some guy to beat the shit out of you, but Vaas does that enough anyway. You're not sure what his angle is.

"Long as it takes, hermano." A snort. "He's fucking crazy, man. He bit the fuck out of me, _swallowed._ Killed a few of my guys. He's crazy. Yeah, but I figure - who the fuck else on this island knows how to handle that shit better? ...Yeah, damaged goods. Can't sell him, he's got like, nerve damage or something. Fucked up lazy eye."

"And you carved your fucking name in my face!" you scream through the door, jumping back when he hauls off and kicks it as hard as he can.

"Hey! Shut the fuck up!" A little giggle-laugh thing. "You see what I'm fucking dealing with? Like six months, bro. Listen - _listen,_ I know about your fucking hobbies, okay, I sell you the materials. You keep him for a few weeks, give him back, it's no problem. Prime fucking punani real estate I'm just _handing_ you, okay, just - yeah, alright. Give me a couple hours."

He won't open the door, and you like to think it's because he's not sure what you'll do. He talks through it instead, knocking gently to get your attention. "Hey, you calm the fuck down in there. If I have to tranq you on the ride over I'm gonna be pissed."

"Where the fuck are we going?" You can't help but ask, even though you know it's what he wants. Vaas just laughs, drags his fingernails down the wood.

"Field trip, hermano. You'll see."

___

Vaas calls him Bambi in that needling faux-affectionate way of his, dragging you from the back seat of the jeep by your hair, but you'll come to know him as Buck. _Sir_ when he's feeling playful. _Uncle Buck_ when he's feeling like a particularly sadistic piece of shit, which is a lot of the time.

"So this is him, eh?" He's... what, Australian? Wears pants a little too tight in the crotch and a shirt he never buttons, is waiting idly outside his little shack when you pull up to it, drinking a beer. Like this is normal. Like this is nothing, really, watching Vaas drag you, barefoot and stumbling, to his door. He didn't have to tranq you, but the pirates have taken every precaution now that they know you're some fucking crazy animal; your arm are tied behind your back, tied again at the shoulders, tied _again_ at the knees, and you're gagged, a strip of duct tape wrapping around your jaw just in case. A makeshift patch covers your good eye, leaving you half-blind and off your balance as you're lead to this inked up asshole for inspection.

"This is him."

"Any particular reason you've got him strung up like a fucking tiger, mate?"

"You'll see." Vaas throws his arm around your shoulder and pulls you close, mouth at your ear. "I'm gonna be gone for a while, baby. Gotta work. Buck here is gonna take care of you for me, so you be good, okay?"

He's not threatening you. He's not roughing you up, or trying to intimidate you, or fucking - anything, but he's still a sick sort of satisfied when he licks across the duct tape, steps back, and kicks the back of your knees. You tumble down, catch yourself close enough to Buck to press your forehead against the inside of his leg, and fuck - fuck, he ruffles your hair affectionately, cups the back of your head to keep you there. "Eager. I like that."

Vaas waves over his shoulder as he goes, hops in the back of the jeep and pays you almost no mind. "You crazy kids have fun." The driver peels out, and he's gone, he's finally - fucking gone.

Buck isn't. You're craning your neck to watch Vaas disappear into the treeline, but Buck turns you back by your jaw and pets through your hair idly, still drinking his beer. Vaas does shit like this too, but you at least know him - Buck is a stranger, but he's already looking you over like a cut of steak, pulling that patch off so he can hold your stare.

"Hear you've been causing trouble. Causing trouble for _Vaas?_ You must be crazy like they say, mate. And just look at those eyes." You don't shut them, giving him the hottest glare you can manage, fuck this piece of shit, fuck him. You're not expecting him to grab you by the arm and haul you up to your feet, pushing you towards the door. "Well fucking come on then, let's get started."

Your new room is a harshly-lit basement with a bed and a bucket, the fuchsia club lights leaving you disoriented as he leads you down by the back of the neck - there are shelves full of you don't even fucking know, a table with chainsaw marks in it, old stains on the floor and wall and sheets that you recognize aren't entirely blood. To your surprise, Buck slices your ropes and lets you bolt to the other side of the room, clawing off the tape in a move that leaves hair and a little skin stuck to it by the time you're done. You're still in the hand-me-down rags that the pirates left you, blood still streaking the front from when Vaas broke your (still bandaged, probably healing slightly crooked) nose.

And he just _watches._ Licks his teeth, waits for you to finish scouting the room for weapons.

"You have the look of a wild animal, mate. Anyone ever told you that?"

" _Fuck_ you. You keep the fuck away from me."

"Now, now." He steps closer, hands spread like he's ready for anything, something curling in his voice that makes your stomach drop. "Let's not be uncivil. We're two educated men, aren't we? Nevermind the fact that you tried to tear a man's throat out with your teeth."

"It almost worked."

" _Almost_ doesn't work for shit though, does it? You're still here." Another couple steps closer. There's maybe ten feet between you now, and it's shrinking steadily. "Still playing fuckboy to the pirate. But still fighting. I like that. You've got spirit, mate."

"Get - get back," you snarl, feeling animal impulse threatening to overwhelm you again. It's happening more and more often lately, these moments where you lose your goddamn mind and let hindbrain impulse take over instead. Buck sees that in you, whistles low and long as he advances. "I'll eat you fucking raw, stay the fuck back."

"I'm not like he is. Look at him, busting up your face like that." Now he reaches out, offers you a hand that you recoil from. "Damn shame, too. You must have been such a pretty thing. Why don't you let Uncle Buck take care of you?"

What happens next is a flurry of movement you're barely even aware of - you grab his wrist and yank him forward, drop a knee in his gut, but he catches it and shoves it down, strong fingers digging into the side of your face as he pins you back to keep you from biting. You catch him with an elbow instead, but it barely staggers him, and like that he can grab your arm and twist it behind your back, crushing you against the wall. The concrete is rough and biting cold against your cheek, and he's so, so warm at your back, solid and heavy as he fits his hips against your ass.

Not again. Not this again.

"Like a fucking wildcat." His breath is hot against your cheek, beard scratching as he drags his face tight against yours. He sounds so fucking _entertained,_ too. "You're lucky he wants you back in one piece, else I'd be fucking you dry right now. Imagine the screaming." You feel him shift, hear the familiar sound of a blade sliding out of its sheath. "But we'll get to that in our own time, won't we?"

The first cut is across the small of your back, long and clean, won't scar. (He's good at not leaving scars, you'll learn.) A year ago you would have howled and gone to the hospital; now you know it's not deep enough to do any real damage, grit your teeth and wait to see if he does any more. No noise, just a tremble picking up in your limbs as he cuts your shirt off and drags the flat of the blade across smooth, unmarred skin.

"Gotten a taste for pain, haven't you?" Another slice, just above the first. His knife is beautifully sharp, at least; you find yourself genuinely goddamn thankful for that little detail as he finishes another hot white line. "You've seen a hell of a lot of it, I'd wager. Just look at you. Swallowing your screams like a real man." Now he hooks the knife against your shoulders, too precise to be an idle threat. "Now, you're going to turn around and let Uncle Buck have a look at you. If you try to fight, I'll cut your fucking balls off. Like they do goats. You don't need those to warm his cock." He steps away from you. "Understood?"

You don't answer, turning around and take a punch you're not expecting - the world rocks dangerously, and Buck is back out of arm's reach, shaking out his hand.

"When I ask you a fucking question, you answer me. Now, let's try that again." Your back aches badly enough to make your eyes water, but you don't let them - just in case this piece of shit thinks he made you cry. "Do you _understand?_ "

"Yes."

"Yes _sir._ "

"Christ, are you fucking--" He starts closer again, and you flatten yourself against the wall. "Shit, shit, okay. Yes _sir._ "

It's a little sickening how he chuckles, bloody knife in one hand and bloody knuckles on the other, stepping closer to drag them across your cheek. The knife is always there, a silent threat. "Such a good boy. You're learning fast. Might just survive this yet." A thoughtful hum, and then he steps back to the center of the room. "On your knees, hands behind your back. Grab the wrist. That's it, there we go."

You're a fighter. A survivor. Whatever he does with you, you'll push through it as surely as you've pushed through everything Vaas has thrown at you. Buck doesn't take long to tear a shred off your shirt (why always ruining your fucking shirts?) and coming back, reaching under the bed for the rope. He ties your hands, lies you back and ties your legs too - he's good with rope, you realize, and his work leaves you frogtied and spread-legged. The shred of shirt is for your gag, and you're begrudgingly obedient for him, opening your mouth so he can tie it tight.

"Good boys get treats. Bad boys, well--" He points with his knife to a particularly large bloodstain in the corner, seems a little disappointed when you absorb this threat calmly. "Well, you're no fun. Can't even piss yourself a little, just for me? Ah hell, nevermind. Let's get on with it."

You're tied and kneeling on the concrete, your legs spread, and he kneels right behind you, drags his hand up across your stomach and chest to map you out. Up, fingering the hollow of your throat, your Adam's apple; down, dragging a line down the center of your chest and just past the waist of your pants, thumbing the hair there. The muscles in your stomach jump at that, and he palms over your abs appreciatively.

"It's not often they still have real meat on the bone. He's been pampering you. Like a housepet." His stubble scrapes under your ear, and you pretend you don't tremble. "A little dog. Under my roof, things work differently. You behave - you get clean clothes, hot food. You don't? You get fuck-all, and your life becomes very, very uncomfortable. I won't tolerate pissing on the carpet. Now lay your head back. I have something to show you."

It means draping yourself half against him, letting him support you as he edges closer, but you don't really have a choice right now. He's gotta be ex-Army or something, with the way he deflects blows, and you're not going to beat him by might. Just relax. _Let it happen._

At least until you see him bring the knife closer, towards your stomach. You tense, but he curtails any struggling by pressing his weight more fully around you, pinching your shoulders together painfully.

"Now, now. You do exactly what I say and you'll do just fine, mate." The knife drifts below your navel, gets to the line of your pelvis before - oh--

This time, you scream. He tamps down your struggling and finishes making the slow, deep cut just under your belly, curving up to your ribs on either side like some kind of fucked up decoration.

"Now look, you're just fine! Just like I said!" He's chiding you, tutting as you drop your head back and close your eyes, chest heaving. "But you do too much struggling, you might just tear that open and spill your intestines all over my floor. Be a terrible shame, that."

Of course. Of course it would. You would die and Buck would toss your corpse and Vaas would be pissed, but move right on to the next way to amuse himself. Probably blow up a small family or some shit. You make no illusions about your place on this island - you're boy candy. You're a blow-up doll with a pulse. All your abusers are like those assholes that carve butter sculptures, and you are the butter. And you are very, very expendable.

You watch through cracked eyes as Buck tugs your pants down far as he can, rolls them down over the rope without cutting them off completely. When he bares your thighs, you drop your head back and look at the ceiling instead. Buck rubs a finger along the spot where your thigh meets your pelvis, and you have to breathe hard through your nose to keep the image out of your head.

"Sensitive?"

He makes the first cut just inside your thigh, quick like a papercut - you don't bother keeping down your voice, crying out as he makes a matching one on the other side.

"Shhhhh-shh-shh. You're fine." Another slice about a half inch below the first. Another on the other leg. The blood is starting to soak through the fabric, hot and tacky, and Buck actually stops for a second to laugh. "Bad time of the month? No problem. I've had my red wings for years now." Cut. Cut. You feel faint, drooping a little heavier on his shoulder, and he's warm and supportive at your temple. "Stay with me. We're almost there."

What the fuck is _there?_ What's the fucking point he's trying to make here? Every muscle is tense, straining from the effort of staying still; another cut, another, and then you feel the body-warm blade press against your cheek, turning your head towards him.

"Look at me." When you don't, you feel the edge press just under your jaw, and your eyes fly open. He's searching your face intently for... something, you don't know, probably tears he can collect and jerk off with. Panic is twisting like an animal in your chest and your mind flies to the stupidest fucking things. Of course. "Now look down. Go on, I don't have all fucking day for this."

Look down.

There's blood, sure. There's a lot of blood. You're also tenting your fatigues, and holy shit, holy _shit,_ what the fuck is wrong with you?

"Now now, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Perfectly natural." The flat of the blade drags down your chest, over a stiff nipple. Everywhere it touches, you swear it leaves a trail of prickling static electricity behind. "I have a nose for men like you, you know. Could smell it on you when you came in. You see, my friend, some of us are meant to... take control. To dominate others, put them in their place. To give pain."

He fucking nudges your dick with the knife. You feel something twinge in your gut, cock bouncing.

"And some of us, through nature or nurture - wonder which it was with you, hm? - are only really enjoying themselves when they're being made to give control away. Powerless, helpless. At the mercy of someone stronger."

You know what fucking BDSM is, and you know that his explanation sounds largely like bullshit. This isn't it, this is... something else. You shake your head, and he only ruffles your hair affectionately.

"Let's not play footsie about this. You know I'm right." A chuckle, and he leans in. "Just look at your dick, mate."

Ongoing PTSD, nightmares even in your waking hours, consistently reinforced patterns of rape and torture. Did this island - did Vaas make you like this, your mind trying to handle the waking hell that has become your life in the only way it knows how? Or were you always like this, thrilling with a potent cocktail of fear and adrenaline as a knife drifts over the curve of your throat? Are you getting more accustomed to ignoring pain, or are you just starting to tolerate it?

Are you starting to like it? Did you always like it?

You close your eyes, turning your head away. Buck is almost gentle in the way he tucks your head under his chin and reaches down, coating his fingers in your blood. "You started to get hard when I tied you up. Was honestly just going to cut you up a little bit and scare you, but this works too." His slick hand wraps around your dick, and you're not proud of the way your hips pump into the touch, a whine trailing through the gag. "There we are."

He jerks you off with your own blood, and god help you, it's good. The pain is a constant thrum in the background, like a drumbeat; the contrast of it against the drag of Buck's hand is startling, fucking incredible, sets your nerves on fire and makes everything feel _more._ You come with a snarl, head thrown back as he works it out of you, and then he's slicing your gag and standing in front of you, pulling his dick out and gripping your hair with something that sounds a lot like _open your fucking mouth._ Feeling faint, you do, and it's not long before he's cursing and coming in your face, on your chest, bitter and salty on your tongue.

Another glance down at the blood, your entire bottom half painted red, and your mind finally gives up. You're barely aware of hitting the concrete, and even less so of Buck's cursing far off. Later you'll wake up roughly bandaged and find the bucket of cold water and rags left for you to clean yourself up with, and then you're laying in the bed, giving up on clothes entirely for now.

Stare at the ceiling. Remember that you've always liked teeth in your neck or nails in your back, and that the rope digging into your skin felt good because of itself, not Buck. Remember the thrill of doing something dangerous (bike tricks, skateboarding, fighting, making one of many attempts on Vaas' life) before you think about what it felt like to get off with a knife at your throat. It doesn't matter. It's weird, but in the end, it doesn't really matter.

You're not an accomplice for getting off. You're not at fault. You very well may be crazy, but that's an aside. You're just getting better at playing the game.

Remember you hate him.


	5. Chapter 5

This is wrong.

" _Tengo prisa,_ shit," but he's not trying to stop you. The camp isn't fifty feet away from his back, and here he is, leaned back against the side of a jeep while you suck him off; his shoulders are tight, his hand is curled into a loose fist in your hair. "Couldn't fuckin wait another ten minutes?"

Here's what you learned in the time you spent with Buck: you really, really don't like spending time with Buck. "Uncle Buck" taught you how it feels to have a loaded Desert Eagle shoved up your ass while he plays with the trigger. He taught you about waterboarding. Predicament bondage, a sharpened sprig of bamboo pressed against the bottom of your jaw while he added weight after weight around your neck. How it feels to be fucked raw until you pass out, sleeping like you're dead for a few hours before he shakes you awake and starts again. Now you sleep under beds rather than in them, not minding the concrete rash of being dragged out as long as you don't wake up with him on top of you again; now you answer every question immediately, _yes sir no sir please sir no more,_ not making eye contact unless it's asked of you. Every time you feel someone standing over or just behind you, no matter the circumstance, cold terror grips your throat like a hand - a sensation you've also become familiar with, coincidentally.

Your time with him was pure, high octane hell, but you did learn something: Vaas is a sick fuck, but at least he's a sick fuck that you kind of understand (and you don't even understand him, really). Better the devil you know, right?

"You want me to stop?" Suck at that spot just under the head that has him cussing, rocking up into it.

"Just make it quick."

This is wrong, but if you learned anything remotely positive from Buck, it's this: in the position you're in, _wrong_ and _sick_ and _depraved_ don't apply, mean nothing. Disconnect from how it feels when he slaps his dick against your cheek and makes you ask for more; pull back from what your body is doing, sliding your teeth into the soft skin of his inner thigh. (" _Easy,_ easy.") This isn't about right and wrong anymore. It's survival, because as you know, you're a survivor.

It's about fucking with his head just as much as he fucks with yours. This isn't a campaign of torture anymore - you're starting to fire back.

"Vaas!"

That's one of his guys shouting at him from the direction of the camp, and Vaas tightens immediately - you don't think he really gives a shit if you get caught, but how does that look for him? Pretty piece of American ass has him wrapped around his fucking finger, look at the boss all pussywhipped. Vaas has a cigar lit, and now he takes another drag off of it and rocks up into your mouth, not looking back.

"Yeah? What the fuck, what?"

"It's just - the big boss wants you to check out some yacht to the south. Says it's important."

"Alright. I'll get to it."

"Boss, he sounded really--"

"Are you deaf? No comprende the fucking Ingles? _I will get to it,_ " Vaas snarls, and the guy murmurs something sheepish and disappears. You actually laugh around him, letting him nudge against your throat - Buck made sure to kill your gag reflex, was very thorough. Porn queens don't know half the shit you do. Vaas hears you laugh, rutting right up against the back of your throat, trying to make you gag, irritated when it doesn't work. "Yeah? Something fucking funny down there? Big laugh coming from the _puta_ choking on my d-- _ahh-- _"__

 _Shut up._ He actually slips, loses his grip on the truck and slides down another inch before catching himself. His groan is some strangled little thing, hand locking in your hair as he shifts the pace and starts fucking in earnest. You're two knuckles deep in his ass and dragging him, kicking and screaming, towards an orgasm that would normally take a tender jaw and a hell of a lot of free time to reach; he seems genuinely surprised by how forward you're being, but says nothing, does nothing to punish you for it. This way you can curl your hand around his hip and urge him to go faster, harder.

"Yeah? Buck teach you that? Like a fucking Hoover--" Your fingers curl inside him and his voice dies off in an embarrassing whine, _shut up, shut the fuck up._ He doesn't risk saying more, and you can just imagine the frustration knotting up in his chest, the fact that can't make a noise unless he wants everyone to know what the two of you are up to.

It's kind of fun, controlling him this way. Big bad fucking pirate king is gnawing half through his cigar trying not to get too loud, and you're completely in control of yourself, not in the least bit aroused. Sex is more of a chore these days, like doing dishes or taking out the trash; with Vaas, it's more or less predictable, the rhythm of fucking. He gets handsy. He gets mouthy. At this point, he either fucks and leaves quickly or really tries to make it good for you too, if only because it cuts deeper than being brutal about it. You come. You probably come again. He comes. Sleep. He'll be gone when you wake up.

It's nice. Routine. Boring, even, and maybe he picks up on that through the efficient way you blow him. There's no play, no teasing, just a warm mouth to fuck and a couple fingers to speed things up. Even when he comes with a growl, shoving you down deep, it's - nothing. It is what it is. Swallow, clean him off, sit back and wipe your mouth while he puts his head back together, cussing. Do up his pants for him, tamping down on your self-satisfied look while he slaps your hands away.

"Fuck." Chest heaving, he hauls you up by the arm without ceremony and drags you into camp with him, letting all his men see how good you're being for him, so nice and obedient. (They're still wary of you, psycho boy.) None of them let their look linger too long on you - after all, you're Vaas' piece of ass, and the man is like a fucking junkyard dog when he thinks someone else might be trying to get close to you. He's jealous as jealous comes, wants you and all your attention to himself. Maybe his mother never hugged him enough.

You spent last night at one of his little camps between Buck's place and this one; now you get to see your shack again, that shitty little lean-to piece of crap with the water spots and springy mattress, no bigger than a matchbox all in all. Vaas fumbles his sunglasses back on, huffing. "Come on. In your box."

When he opens the door, the first thing you notice is the lack of flooring. Those bamboo mats you've counted the strands in time and time again, the floor that's almost become an imaginary fucking friend for you? Gone. Underneath is bare wood foundation, and they didn't even manage to pull out all the nails. The walls are bare. The TV is gone. All you have is a bare mattress different from your own (is that a pillow-top?) and a radio sitting on the floor. They've even taken out the shower.

"We did some, uh - _redecorating?_ " He seems satisfied with his word choice as he leads you in, arm loose around your waist. "Thought it could use a new look for the homecoming party."

"You took all my shit out."

"You just notice that?" He doesn't shut the door, which means he plans on leaving soon. You know his patterns. "You didn't need that shit. Distractions."

"Yeah? And the floor?"

"Secondary distraction. Stop asking so many fucking questions, amigo."

You do, absorbing your new home (cage; when did you start thinking of this place as home?) while he hems and haws and waits for you to ask why. You don't give him the satisfaction, walking to the mattress to sit down on the edge. His hand drops limply as you go, fingertips brushing your arm like he's tempted to drag you back. He doesn't, though, and you're free to head further in. "Alright."

Alright. For someone that feeds off emotion like he does, the answer is hollow. He was expecting you to be upset, probably did all this just for that purpose, and you're not biting. Not even a nibble.

"Uh, _alright?_ The fucking kids are alright, amigo, why don't you use your words?" Aw, is he mad? Expected a hysterical meltdown because he took your floor? Vaas fiddles with his cigar, and you hear him stamp it out.

"That's alright. That's fine." Lay down on your mattress, marveling at how much softer it is than concrete. Was he tired of that teeny, springy little piece of shit digging into his knees? "Whatever you want."

"Yeah." He doesn't sound so certain, more thrown off than anything. Again, more assertive: "Yeah. Whatever I fucking want, you remember that."

The game is afoot. He leaves you with a half-muttered warning not to try anything, sulking as he goes. You get the opportunity to examine the room. The radio is shitty quality but catches a few oldies stations, even a classic rock channel that fades in and out of fuzziness depending on what you assume is the weather. You still have a toilet, but it looks like he's planning on you showering somewhere else - you know you'll still be bathing because in the beginning, when you'd cried and bled and cried and fought every single time, spent the rest in a daze of horror, he'd come in sometimes and sneer about the stink of stale come, tell you to get your ass clean before he comes back. The mattress is indeed pillow-top, and for the first, what, two days? You spend those asleep. Spend even more time laying in bed not asleep, listening to your radio. Sleep more.

Wait. Remember how much you hate him, and all the reasons why. Count those instead of sheep.

___

"That's good, huh? That feel alright?"

It's about as comfortable as it's going to get. Vaas, it seems, has developed an interest in bondage - hours of redtube research probably went into this scenario, having you naked and frogtied, kneeling on the floor, blindfolded, your arms bound in front of you. You're not entirely sure where he's going with this, but he's not Buck. You at least have that reassurance.

"Really? With the chain?" These are real chains, not some of that froofy shit actually made for people with, you know, their safety in mind; he's got them wound around your neck and padlocked, another length of chain clipped on at the back to make a leash that he's very, very into pulling on. It digs into your throat every time, makes you arch back, and sometimes he sets his boot into the small of your back and pulls until you beg him to stop. _Just testing, hermano. You gotta stop getting so bitchy about everything._

Of course, he gives another yank now. A vaguely rusted link digs into your windpipe, pulling you into him while he settles in a crouch at your back, practically purring in that way he does when he feels horny and mean. He's still got his clothes on, and with you laid back against him like this, you get to feel the scratch of his shirt and breathe in the warm jungle smell he carries around with him. If you licked him right now, you'd taste ocean salt. The last few days have been quiet. No gunpowder this time.

"You _like_ it." Vaas noses into your neck, drags his teeth along the steel and lets his tongue graze just under your jaw. The hand not occupied with trying to strangle you is roaming appreciatively, and even though you've got your rope-bound hands between your legs to steady you (to hide), he knows you're getting hard. His fingers drift along fresh scarring along the inside of your thigh, thumbing over each and every mark. "Huh? Don't try and lie to me, like you think I don't fucking know better? You _like_ it. Baby gets pussywet for the whips and chains shit, huh?"

Maybe. Maybe it's because he's been playing with you for the past hour and a half leading up to this. Motherfucker cleared his whole evening for you.

"You know chaining my hands in front of me doesn't actually do shit, right?" God, but he _laughs,_ this throaty little chuckle he presses open-mouthed over your pulse, teeth prickling. That's bad. When he knows he's about to do something you're not expecting, will have no defenses against, he laughs like that, so fucking smug. When he drops the leash and takes you by both your wrists, you tremble with the fear of _not knowing what to do._

He lifts your wrists and loops the rope around the back of his neck, crouching right down with you. This way, your arms are out of the way - this way, all you can do is grab at him when both his hands drop to your stomach, smoothing along your thighs. (Wrap your hands around the back of his head, drag your nails in his shoulders. He loves that shit.) He's got fifty pounds on you easy, and no matter how you pull or struggle, all he has to do is shrug the rope a little further down his shoulders to get comfortable again.

"Who says they're gonna be in front of you, hermano?" With your neck unavailable, he drags his teeth at the shell of your ear. His tone is practically molten, and if you didn't know before, you do now: he's really getting into this. "Now it's time for quiet, okay? The only word I want to hear out of your fucking mouth is _Vaas._ Get it?" 

"Got it." There's tension in your leash again. "Vaas."

"Good boy."

He's feeling indulgent tonight. For a while, he just touches and talks; tracks and fingers every scar he finds, rubs the tension out of your muscles as best he can like this, finds all those little spots you don't usually let him linger on. His dirty talk is generally a stream-of-consciousness thing, always hit or miss, but there are a few memorable bits in this one - he's been thinking about this the whole month you were gone, missing this, wanting this. He knew you could handle Buck, come back stronger, and you did, didn't you? You think you're playing a game, psycho boy, fucking Rambo wannabe, you think you're gonna get the upper hand. _But you're not, baby, huh, baby girl? You're wherever the fuck I want you to be. The whole island is gonna know my name by the time I'm done with you. I'm gonna fuck you stupid._

Well, that last one is more of a miss, but he thought it was pretty hot.

"Heard you like getting cut up. You're a real freak, you know that?" You hear a knife, tense up while he raises his arm and slams it down - but you feel it sink into the floor between your legs, right up against the inside of your thigh. Another one on the other side. "So we're gonna play a little game. We're gonna have fun, okay? You move around too much, that shit? It's gonna cut you up. Maybe even hit your artery. You really get crazy, it's gonna cut your dick off. I'd stay still."

 _Oh,_ that's all that comes out of you. _Oh,_ this rush of air out of you like he's just hit you in the gut, what the _fuck_ is he doing? You start to say it too, "What the fuck are you--"

"Ah ah _ah._ " He nudges you forward, and true to form, you feel the blades start to sink in. No blood yet, but any more and there will be - they keep their knives fucking sharp around here. "Remember? _Quiet?_ Shut your fucking cocksucker and keep it shut. Besides--"

Besides, as he fondles you intently, you're still hard. Maybe even a little more so than earlier. He's got his grin in your cheek as he gives you a few test strokes, seeing if you can keep your hips in check. You can, your restraint stalwart, and it's something you can definitely say wouldn't be possible a year ago. Oh good, you're _developing as a person._

" _Vaas._ " You're communicating in a language that has one word and a handful of vowels. Add a whine to it, like please don't fucking do this to me, like please stop - a little _ah_ that sounds more afraid than anything. "Vaas, please--"

He lets you have that one, if only because he likes the way it sounds. He gives the leash a little choke-yank, then slowly reels you back into a painful arch to fit his mouth on yours, which means your hips slide a little further out. You feel prickling pain, letting out a noise like a sob against his mouth, and the motherfucker uses the opportunity to lick between your teeth and kiss brutally hard. Vaas kisses like taking a dying breath, greedy and deep and selfish, but it's the sort of thing you can't help but get caught up in - kiss him open-mouthed, making these soft little hitching noises now and again, and bite his lip on the way out. He snarls against your mouth, teeth bared; you lick the blood away and drag it into another kiss, not surprised when he bites you in turn. Bites a little harder than you did, actually.

Bites a lot harder. You jolt away with some anguished little noise and feel the knives dig in, then feel his hand around your collar to drag you back into it, licking away the line of blood from your chin to your punctured lip. Another sharp tug at your leash and you're opening up for him again, _don't_ murmured against his cheek. He lets you have that one too, sucking at the wound. The first tear sneaks its way out from under the blindfold, and he licks that away too, making a low shushing sound.

"Baby girl, why you crying?" He's _grinning_ against your fucking temple, running a thumb over the head of your cock. Another body-wide tremble, another little sob, another tear - this time he kisses it away, a mockery of intimacy. "You just gotta listen to me. You really think I'd let anything bad happen to you?"

Yes. You don't need to say it for him to know, very deliberately rocking your hips forward again. "Maybe. Between you and me, just me - and - you? I kind of like it when you're scared. That's that good shit." He steadies your hips to rock against you again, very deliberately, and he's rock fucking hard. "And after a while there, you stopped being scared."

So you have to learn again. Your voice is rough, colored with strain. " _Sick fuck._ "

He doesn't give you that one, but it's not immediately apparent; he lets the leash slack and you scoot a precious quarter inch back from the blades, but then he must wind it around his arm and yank it, because your head snaps back and the collar is suddenly very, very tight. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to breathe, what little of it you're doing. It even hurts to _have a pulse_ when it's this tight, and your nails dig lines into his shoulders, clawing like an animal.

"Yeah? You really think so?" His hand around your dick again, pumping hard enough to hurt. "I'm not the one getting off on having a knife to my fucking dick. You? You have problems, amigo."

Maybe. It's like you're breathing through a straw, mouth fallen open in a little o of... well, of everything. You can't see, so everything _feels_ more; there's the pain in your lip, different from the pain in your thighs or the pain in your throat; there's the feel of Vaas' rough palm working you steadily closer to an orgasm that may very well kill you. There's him, too, warm and solid at your back, wrapped around you everywhere, this inescapable nightmare man that haunts you in new, exciting, agonizing ways.

He lets up on your throat, and you can finally suck in a proper breath, slumping back against him. He's still got the leash wound around his arm in case he needs to yank it again, but it also means you have no choice but to lay close enough to hear his heart hammering and the harsh way he's breathing, how into this he is, how much he desperately wants to fuck you right here, right now.

Remember, you hate him.

He slows way down when he figures you're close, just fingertips as he rubs idly at your dick again. He's nudging against your mouth a moment later, and you let it fall open to suck precome off his finger.

"Shit. Just - _shit,_ I knew you were into this, but _amigo,_ " he lolls his head, cheek against yours, shifting forward just so, "that's - this is pretty fucked up."

Shut up shut up _shut up._ He doesn't know you have him by the balls, even like this. Let your mouth fall open, get all breathy and slutty like he likes.

"Daddy, _please._ " You can _feel_ him twitch, his grip tightening on your hip. He's hooked, so now comes the gamble. Grin against his cheek, goad him into finishing this already. "That's what you're into, right? _Oh Daddy, I love your fat cock in my ass,_ is that - is that really what gets you off? That hokey porno _bullshit?_ "

Mixed results. He hauls the rope from around his neck and shoves his pants out of the way, and all you're getting this time is spit, fingers working you open with brutal efficiency. You get fucked often enough that you don't really need a whole lot of prep or lube anyway, but still, it's going to be uncomfortable, _is_ uncomfortable.

"Think you're fucking funny, huh? Opening night at the Orpheum? _Fuck_ you, and if you make one more fucking sound, I'm cutting your fucking vocal chords out." A hand in your hair shoves your forehead to the floor, and then the knives are a very real threat that dig into your stomach and thighs in the worst possible way - particularly when you hear him spit again, and a moment after, feel the splitting pain when he puts himself balls deep in one hard, sharp shove of his hips. Your arms are still tied, and he's using the chain to pull you back into his thrusts, no care or attention paid to you.

This is probably what it feels like to be a fleshlight. You can reach up and yank the blindfold down - that's all he sees you do, and he still twists your hair for it, putting a knee in your back to brace you while he pulls the chain.

"Yeah, you don't like that, huh? Feels bad, huh? I will _cut a hole_ in you and then _fuck it,_ you piece of shit." The dirty talk is certainly going downhill. Your mind comes up with weird non-sequiturs like that when you're oxygen deprived, you've found, but he's still oblivious. See, those knives aren't just carving you up with every thrust, they're cutting the rope that binds your wrists while Vaas is too blind with rage to notice; you're tensing and crying out and he won't notice one more little move as you grab one of the knives, of course he won't. Won't be able to block it in time. Vaas doesn't wear a knife, after all.

You learn about the Rakyat thing later, sort of. Not only is he a psychopathic, genuinely insane, delusional rapist pirate piece of shit, he's also apparently some kind of runaway warrior prince. Of course he is. And he's good with knives. _Of course he is._

Your wrist snaps back to gore him with the knife, and it's pure instinct that saves him; Vaas takes a score across his elbow before he has the clarity to realize what's just happened, and then he's rocking forward on his knuckles like an animal, lunging in to take you down before you manage to get the other knife. To his surprise, you're ready - you roll his weight and end up on top, both hands white-knuckled around your knife as you drag it, inch by fought for inch, towards his eye. His face. His fucking _ear,_ his anything, and he's got his arm blocking yours, the other hand pinned beneath him.

You don't see fear in his eyes, not even when he's got a knife hovering an inch from his face. Now more than ever, his teeth bared in effort, he just looks like an animal to you - he's got the skin and the shape of a man, but no compassion, nothing driving him but the urges to _have_ and to _kill._ You once read somewhere that dolphins will kill other sea creatures for play, or drag humans to underwater caverns and drown them. And that's a dolphin fact.

The knife is out of your hand before you know it, and for a moment afterwards you keep trying to stab dumbly, thumping your empty fist against his chest. You hear it stick somewhere in the far wall with a dull thump, and then it's his hands again, rolling the two of you over until he's straddling you, his hands on your face. The motherfucker is _laughing._ He's really, honestly laughing, and that's probably the worst insult of all.

" _You!_ You sneaky little motherfucker! You really thought that would work, huh?" You knee him in the gut and grab for the other knife, but it's apparently effortless for him to disarm you and twist your arm painfully, pinching some kind of nerve in your elbow that makes it cramp and go limp above your head. "So sorry. It doesn't work like that, amigo. But here's what I'm going to do - here's what we're gonna do, okay?"

The other knife sinks into the floor, but this time, there's next to no sound - your hand muffled most of the impact when Vaas drove the knife straight through it, pinning it to the floor. You'll later realize that he was very deliberate about missing the bones, stabbing through the muscle and tendons instead. (If he'd hit bone, it might not have hurt this much.)

And it hurts. Hurts a fucking _lot,_ actually, and when you first see the knife and all that blood, you actually faint cold out. What drags you back is the shock of him starting to fuck you again, jarring your pinned hand and shaking you awake with a scream. He must have slicked himself up with something in the meantime (Christ, but with _what?_ ), because the way is smoother and his thrusts are harder, slower, meaner. When he really gets going, he usually holds you in place and fucks you - like this, each roll of his hips jars the knife and has you yelping, eyes fixed on it like you don't understand. This can't be happening. This doesn't really happen to people.

But it's happening to you.

"I like it when you fight," Vaas confides, forehead against your shoulder while he fucks you like a lover would. His words are barely audible over the roar of blood in your ears. "All the other ones? They broke by now. Quit fighting. What the fuck kind of fun is that? They're just gonna lay there and fuckin pillow queen, let it happen... you get what I'm saying, right? It's like reeling in one of those big ass trophy fishes, like what's the fucking point unless it _fights?_ "

He has an insane, vaguely accurate point. He kills them when they stop fighting, just like you knew months ago - shit, you've always had an edge over the others, however many poor unfortunate goddamn souls those were. The pain is intense enough to make everything novocain numb at the edges, both overwhelming but distant, muted - too loud and muffled, too bright and still flickering faintly at the edges. Again, he takes time here and there to kiss or thumb away the tears, digs his nails into your hip. Talking, biting, scratching. You realize dimly that he's trying to distract you from the pain, keeps you from passing the fuck out on him because he wants you here. He needs you here. He needs you to remember this.

He needs that because it's what gets him off.

"If I wanted to fuck something that just lays there, I'd save myself all this fucking trouble and go get a corpse instead, you know?" He turns your chin so you have to look at him, categorizes what he sees in your eyes and drops his head, pants against your cheek. He's genuinely really fucking into this, isn't he? "But _you,_ you came out so good, so fucking good. You hate me. That's all that's keeping you alive, how much you fucking hate me."

"Yeah," you say, or you're pretty sure you say. It's hard to keep track of what you think and what's actually real sometimes, usually in moments like this. His necklaces are a jangling reminder that you're still here, occasionally smacking you in the face, and that's probably what keeps you awake in the end, some stupid fucking shit like that, just the rhythmic bump against your chin.

"I'm gonna make this good." He gets caught on a moan right about there, and that little sound is enough to remind you that you're being fucked, dropping the mental barriers that separate you from your body, and it's - okay, it's good, nothing special. Feels like any other fuck. You actually focus on the pain instead, head lolling back to the side, eyes shut and jaw tight. He won't let you forget him, licking animal-like across your closed lips, and keeps fucking talking. "You hear that? We're gonna fuck until my dick gets sore. Daddy's gonna make you fucking love this." A nasty laugh against your ear. "Hope it's your safe day, bitch."

Right about there is when you pass out for the second time.

___

The whole camp knows about you, knows what you're for. You're the bitch, the warm hole Vaas fucks to keep himself satisfied, and really, a lot of them are probably happy you're here. What they probably don't appreciate is the on again off again screaming from your shack that goes on all night, which you're almost positive the entire camp can hear.

You wake up from passing out the fourth time, after he'd come and then pulled the knife out. Your hand is wrapped in - fucking - is that _duct tape?_ It's working pretty well, but yes, he's duct taped your knife injury. The chains are gone, the collar is gone - he'd gone sweet on round two, _I'm gonna take these off, you like that idea? Fuck yeah you do, tell me you like it._ There's a warm hum through your limbs that wasn't there before, reminds you of when you broke your arm when you were a kid, they'd taken you to the hospital and hit you with--

"'S morphine, hermano." Oh good, he knows you're awake. You roll onto your back and look up at him, sitting on your table while he smokes one of his cigars, drinks what you know is probably shitty instant coffee because this place keeps nothing else on hand. It's storming now, muggy like you're trying to breathe soup, but it's somewhere around dawn. "That's good shit, right? We can get you more. Get you whatever you want, baby." Another puff. He can even blow smoke rings, the fuck. "Coke? Heroin? What's your poison?"

You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. The second try produces a screechy mess, and then you thud your head back to the mattress and close your eyes again, listening to him laugh a little. "You can tell me later. Then again, shit, maybe you can make it on being too fucking stubborn to let me kill you."

There's a sort of unspoken knowledge between you now, and you can pick up on meanings in what he says that others might miss. _Let me kill you._ All you really have to do is ask, and you're sure he'll pull his gun and shoot you dead right on the spot. You could be dead. You could be free.

"Fuck you," you manage, and he titters quietly to himself again, stubs his cigar out.

"Just can't fucking die until you see me die first, huh? I respect that about you, my friend. _Principled._ " He stands, crosses the room (with a slight limp that almost satisfies you to see) and hunkers down, hauls you up by your arm and ignores your protests as he pulls you into his lap, your back against his chest, his chin on your shoulder. It's a mockery of intimacy, and you know without a doubt that that's what this is, he's mocking you with something you'll probably never have for the rest of your life, even if you do get off this hellhole island. You're too fucked up. He's ruined you, you'll have to go live on a mountain or something. "Maybe you'll pull it off someday. You're pretty fucking crazy."

It's your turn to laugh, some dragging low-pitched thing that sound more like a rattle. It would be easier if it was always violent and awful, brutal sex and endless torture, but he knows these quiet moments he pulls fill you with so much bile and awful hate that you remember why you still bother breathing. There's no telling how long you sit there, because you fall into exhausted, dreamless sleep some point not long after, your relief almost palpable. You stopped dreaming forever ago, relieved for the loss - you can't remember your mother's face anymore, or what your friends' voices sound like, or even what it felt like to wake up and not immediately think _Okay, so is this the day one of us dies?_

Ten minutes later, you wake up face down in the mattress, his fingers digging into your hips. You actually start crying, howling with frustration as he rubs up and down your spine, his murmuring in your ear so saccharine it could rot teeth. _That's right, baby girl, hands and knees. That's right. Just like that._

Remember, you hate him.


	6. Chapter 6

When they first drag him in, you know he's going to be trouble. You sometimes watch them from your little window as they bring the latest batch of unlucky vacationers in. It's very rarely interesting. Mostly crying, begging, quiet terror, that kind of thing. This time, though, you watch them drag him by the hair to his cage, hands tied behind his back, ankles tied and stumbling through the sand - and later, you'll know why Vaas picks him.

It's because he won't shut the fuck up. They bring him in screaming abuse, spitting and sneering and thrashing no matter how many times they hit him. He's got hellfire in his eyes. At one point, one of the pirates kicks him in the ribs and you swear you hear _if I wanted a kiss, I would've asked your mother._ Another pirate grinds his heel into the man's knuckles, and after he finishes shouting and jerking his hand back, he just starts... _laughing,_ letting them toss him into his cage without further fighting. It's a little sick, the familiarity. Maybe the guy is crazy.

His name is Gabriel. He's older than you, has to be somewhere in his early to mid thirties, and he's grey - not that hipster silver bullshit, but genuinely going gray prematurely, all salt and pepper and handsome, bold sneer. He was born in Jerusalem and later moved to Great Britain, his trade is engineering, he's a drunk, and he never

shuts

up.

When he's conscious, he's talking, shouting, singing, spitting, carrying on through day and night until his voice starts to go or they beat him unconscious, and after a while, he goes quieter more often. You're decently sure they're chloroforming him, which is a relief, as horrible as it sounds - fuck, he's just so persistent. It reminds you of the way you started out, before Vaas came along and taught you this war of attrition thing you two have going on. You were bold once, bright; you had a reason to keep going other than hatred. He still does.

It won't last.

___

You don't know the exact reasoning why Vaas started letting you go out (handcuffed to another pair of handcuffs attached to a D ring on his belt, stuck tagging along after him like a dog), but really, you don't ask so many questions anymore. Because Vaas is fucking crazy, probably. He lets you follow him around on his downtime because he's crazy, and probably because you're starting to look sickly and pale. You don't remember what it feels like to really have to walk, navigating the terrain, and for the first day or two Vaas is constantly screaming at you for falling in the sand and nearly taking him down with you. It happens a couple of times.

One of these outings is how you meet Gabriel. Vaas drags you along to take inventory of the new stock, decide which ones are salable and which ones to get rid of, which isn't necessarily something you like tagging along to. The people always stare at you like some kind of nightmarish jungle creature, with your eye and your scars and the name carved in your cheek, or worse, they refuse to look at you entirely. It's a sharp reminder that your existence is a living horror, and really, that kind of puts a damper on you enjoying your slight freedom.

Gabriel's cage is at the end, set aside from the others - the problem child, like he needs to be quarantined unless the other captives start getting ideas from his raving. He's awake when you and Vaas walk up, and you lean idly against the bamboo as Vaas crouches to look him in the eye.

"You, huh? You're the guy that can't shut the fuck up?" The guy says nothing, and you watch Vaas shift from amusement to irritation in a blink. He leans close, drapes his arms on the bars. "Hey! Don't fucking look at him, look at me. Look at me."

"Oh. Sorry." The guy has an accent, but you can't place exactly where from. Was he looking at _you?_ "I was told that if I didn't shut the fuck up until the boss shows, they're going to - what was it? Oh, right. Colombian necktie me." The guy shifts, all calm confidence you know he's faking, if the slight tremble of his fingers is anything to go by. "So! When's he coming?"

Vaas tapers off into a faint little laugh, pushing himself to his feet again. "You're looking at him, hermano." Digging out his license now, probably. "So... Gabriel."

"That's right. You must be Vaas." Vaas glances back up, eyes narrowed snakelike. Gabriel actually laughs, an airy sound you know isn't sincere. "Oh, don't worry, they didn't tell me. No one is allowed to talk to me, isn't that right?" So how did he know? He answers that too, nodding towards you. "I saw the name on him. You really should take better care of your pets, Vaas."

It's kind of amazing to watch, actually. Gabriel has a masterful poker face, acts calm and confident when you know without a doubt that he's scared out of his fucking mind (you saw him fight, saw him thrash like a wild animal in their grip and stumble in soaking wet from what you can only assume was him jumping off the fucking boat at some point). And the way he says Vaas' name - like they're good friends. He even accents it correctly. You know Vaas well enough to read the line in his shoulders and know that he's thrown, that his regular routine isn't going to work.

"Funny man, huh? Everybody's a fucking comedian around here."

"You have _no_ idea how far it gets you, Vaas. I get more head than a pillow." He doesn't give Vaas an opportunity to answer, shifting to lay up against the bars; he's hurting, holds his ribs and idly drapes an arm out of the cage, dragging his fingertips through the sand. "Maybe I should show you someti--"

Vaas is laughing. Then you're nearly yanked off your feet as he lunges and grabs Gabriel's jaw through the cage, shaking him the way a dog might shake a rabbit. He's not laughing anymore.

" _Shut the fuck up!_ " You have no choice but to watch Vaas dig his fingers into the man's face hard enough to cut half-moons into his cheeks, swallowing a sympathy wince when Vaas takes the opportunity to give the guy's ribs a good, solid hit. Gabriel makes a sound like he's had the wind knocked out of him, twisting in on himself, choking on pain. "You think I won't kill you? You _think--_ " Another hard shake. "--that I won't make a fucking pair of shoes out of you? Fucking mouthy cunt. Open your fucking mouth one more time, do it. _Do it._ "

Gabriel doesn't, letting his eyes slip closed and his weight settle obediently in Vaas' palm, breathing hard. Vaas shoves him back, watches him gasp and curl in on himself in the sand.

"That's what I fucking thought. Funny man. You--" He crouches, giggles in his throat and grips at the bars like he's thinking of grabbing him again. "--you and me, we're gonna have fun. I'm not through with you."

Vaas nearly knocks you over _again_ when he stands up and starts walking, drags you off before you have time to linger. He takes you to your shack and shoves you in, but even as he locks the door and begins walking away with one of his guys, you can hear him talk. "Motormouth? He goes in the basement. Don't fucking touch him, nobody touches him. He's mine."

Those two words twist your chest in a pang of... something. Not jealousy, but not entirely sympathy either.

___

Later, when he's cuffed and tossed into your shack with you, that's when you learn more about him.

It's been a day or two, maybe. (You don't really bother counting anymore.) It's the middle of the night when they throw him in, though, and he's... a mess; his nose must be broken in a few different places, lip split and both eyes black, his breath wheezing when he curls in on himself just a few feet away from you. He's missing all the fingernails on his left hand, probably some of his toenails too. When he finally speaks, you'll realize his canines are gone too, ruining what must have been an expensive, perfect smile. He's a fucking mess.

But he's alive, and that's something. You watch him for a long while as he gathers himself, coughs and wheezes and curls tight enough that it must hurt even worse - then he hooks the cuffs under his feet and pulls his arms in front of him, pushing himself up in a slow, painful trek across the room to your mattress. He doesn't bother asking before he drops into it, a moan crawling up out of him that sounds bone-deep, unimaginably exhausted, like he's been brought to the very brink of death and then dragged back.

You know the feeling, but you're not sleeping on the floor. You end up sliding into the spot beside him, stripped to nearly nothing in the sticky jungle heat, and quietly hope that he doesn't die right next to you. At least let him die off your mattress, you don't want to associate your bed with this. Maybe it's cruel, maybe you're awful for thinking it.

He doesn't die, but he wakes you up again and again whenever he accidentally rolls onto his ribs. You sleep like shit, but you know he's sleeping even worse.

___

"It's Gabriel, right?"

You wait until he comes to before you bother trying to ask him anything, and that takes another half day or so - when he can't stand the painful, dull task of laying in bed and considering where he went wrong in life (you know the feeling), he finally drags himself to his hands and knees and coughs, spits a mouthful of semi-coagulated blood onto your floor. That's when you ask, and that's when he gingerly lays himself against the wall and finally, finally looks at you, visibly drifting in and out of the conversation. Concussion, probably.

"Only my mother calls me Gabriel, and I can't stand that frigid bitch. Call me Gabe."

"Gabe." Sit up against the table, watch him fight the pull of unconsciousness. "You need to shut the fuck up more often, Gabe."

"God, I know." Faint, faint laughter, more of an exhale than anything else. "Better than anyone else. I just can't help myself, you know, it's awful."

Silence, for a while. Comfortable silence. You almost think he's passed out again until he picks up again.

"Christ in heaven, I should've been a priest. My mother was right." He tosses his head a little dramatically, sighs. "Again. Like she always is. Lord, I should've been a priest."

He passes out right about then, and you're left staring at him for a long, silent moment. Something bubbles up out of you, a little bark of noise. Another, sharper. Before you know it, you're laughing uproariously at him and not him and everything and nothing, caught between some existential crisis and the realization of how ridiculously fucked you both are. Your laughter, come to find out, is what sends the guard to find Vaas.

You don't know whether you're laughing or sobbing by the time he opens the door and peeks in, looking at the two of you, but it doesn't matter. He shuts the door without a word and leaves you to it, alone and hysterical while the sun rises.

___

They let you and Gabe spend the rest of the week together, which you know must be some sort of gambit to fuck with you later, but it's not like you have much choice - the guy slowly heals and puts himself back together, burns with the sort of determination you vaguely remember having yourself, once. And he talks. God, does he talk. Wraps his hands up in your old shredded clothing and sets his nose, telling you where he comes from, what he does; crawling across every square inch of the shack for some kind of weakness that you know he won't find, he tells you how he got here.

"It was supposed to be a... sabbatical," Gabe admits one night, laid up on the table so he can see the night sky through your little window. "They were putting me away in some quiet little island retreat so I wouldn't embarrass them any more than I already have. When you come from money, you never really move away from your parents."

"Sabbaticals are for, what, psychotic breaks?" You're still chewing on the apple that came with your dinner, content to eat nearly to the core just for something to do. "You flip out or something?"

"OD. Nearly died. Would have, if housekeeping hadn't come around earlier than usual." He shrugs, smiles wryly. "Speedball. God, I love it. Never wanted to stop."

"Even after almost dying?"

"More so, actually. It's like... touching the face of God." He drops his head to the side, laughs. "If that makes any goddamn sense."

"Nah."

He keeps quiet for the rest of the night, but you know he's not asleep.

___

You usually sleep very well - between boredom and the heat and getting fucked, it comes easily these days. The past few nights have been different, spent tossing and turning and mulling around anxiously. It's been a week since Vaas last came, and with every new day he doesn't spend railing you for kicks, your unease grows. He's never gone this long unless he's away from the camp, and you know for a fact that you've seen him walking past, acting like you and your shack don't even exist.

He's ignoring you. Something isn't right.

It ends up being a week before he finally shows, giving the door a kick to shock you both awake - Vaas locks the door behind him like he always does, and now he leans up against it almost coyly, hands shoved in his pockets. A battered black case hangs from his shoulder, bumping against his hip as he shifts. "You boys playing nice?"

You know immediately that he's not here for you. He barely spares you a glance as he crosses the room, kneels down at Gabe's side to slap at his cheek. Gabe's been quiet the past few days, getting sicker and sicker with something you're decently sure isn't horrible tropical fever. He's clammy, pale. He shakes. He assures you that he's fine, at least when he isn't wracked with cramps. Vaas pretends to be surprised by this, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Shit, you're not looking so hot, huh? Why's that?" He snaps his fingers at Gabe's temple, watches his eyes finally flutter open. "Why's that?"

" _Fuck_ you, you know why." Gabe rolls onto his other side, ignoring Vaas' mean laughter at his back, but it's easy to roll him back over again - Vaas pins him by his shoulder, takes him by his jaw and gives him a gentle little shake to reprimand him. He's too weak to fight back. "Fine, _hell._ Withdrawal."

"Yeah, I know that."

"You didn't come here to gloat, did you? It's terrible manners."

Vaas gets that look about him, sharp-eyed and clever. All you can do is watch Gabe stumble right into it, your lips spelled shut for knowing how completely useless it would be to try to warn him or interrupt. This isn't about you. This isn't something preventable. If Gabe is here, with you, then his fate was sealed a week ago.

"Nah. Came to let you know that mama and papa aren't gonna pay up. They don't want you back that bad." Gabe's eyes slip closed. Vaas pats at his cheek apologetically, that black bag of his sliding from his shoulder. "Tough luck, amigo."

"I could've told you that." He makes himself sound casual about it, but you detect a faint tremble in his voice. He clears his throat and gets rid of it on the next sentence, words falling out of him like a sigh. "Hell, I'm surprised they even bothered answering. Long distance calls are so expensive these days."

"Hey, bro, I get that. Fucking... _family,_ right? It doesn't mean shit." To your surprise, Vaas sounds entirely genuine in this sentiment, settling cross-legged at Gabe's side. He's been testing the waters. "Doesn't mean a fucking thing in the end."

"Why are you telling me this, again? Sorry to interrupt your family monologue, but I'm really very tired, Vaas."

Anyone else at any other time would be getting the fuck beaten out of them for that kind of lip. You watch the muscles in Vaas' jaw move under his skin, his fingers tighten briefly in Gabe's hair. He smooths it out a moment after, petting in a way that seems all too familiar to you.

"Yeah. That's the thing, Gabe." He must have heard you call him that. He's been _listening,_ the snaky piece of shit. "See, I am really very sympathetic. Withdrawal, man - that's rough." No immediate answer. He unzips a pocket on the side of the bag, and pulls out - very carefully - what looks a lot like a syringe full of some murky shit that immediately has Gabe's attention, eyes wider as he pushes himself up. Vaas leans out of arm's reach, but he keeps the syringe in sight. " _Ah ah._ You like that? See, everybody else on the ship brings, like - clothes and shit, right? Little shampoos. Soap. Fucking toothbrush, at least. But you? All we find on you is a fucking smack kit."

That's really all he brought? Gabe is rapt, swallowing thickly as Vaas continues.

"Rich kid has a problem, yeah? Expensive problem. Billion dollar boy with a bad habit."

"What do you _want?_ " He's desperate and not even trying to pretend otherwise, rocking forward to reach out for it again. Vaas pushes onto his feet, kicks that hand away as he starts mulling back and forth. "Just - you have to want something. Pretend you're a decent human being for a few minutes and tell me what you want."

"Open the bag." Vaas' order is cool, unhurried. "Do it. Get out what's inside."

You watch Gabe drag the bag closer by the arm strap, ratty from weather and age - you watch him thumb the zipper for a single moment of hesitation before he drags it down, peering in. For a few moments, that's all he does. Just looks, puzzling it out. Vaas steps closer and runs his fingers through Gage's hair, and gradually, something in his expression shifts from confusion to a sort of tired, mild acceptance. He hauls the video camera out without a word, sitting it in his lap. None of it is making sense to you, but these two already know the score.

"You're cleverer than I thought," Gabe says.

"Kiss my ass," Vaas replies. "You gonna do this or what? Because if you're not--"

It almost hurts to hear Gabe snarl a defeated little _yes,_ setting the camera aside. Some sort of business transaction has just occurred, you feel. Gabe hands over the camera and Vaas hands over the syringe, both men turning to their respective tasks. Vaas tries to figure out how to turn the thing on, cussing. Gabe finds a vein with practiced ease and shoots up, and then you get to watch him go all heavy-lidded and unsteady over the next few minutes, leaning back against the wall, staring into space. Vaas notices, snickering as he finally manages to get the lens cap off.

"That's real good shit. The best." The little light on the camera comes on. Vaas folds out the little screen, fusses with the buttons. "Whatever you were getting from the local crackhead isn't shit compared to this, right? You do this right and we'll keep you stocked up. Give you what mommy and daddy wouldn't."

"You're not going to make me call you Daddy, are you?" Vaas doesn't fight the crooked smile, and Gabe only laughs again, eyes falling shut. He smiles faintly, but he's not really smiling, and you can see how his hands shake when he brings them up to his face. Like he's trying to hide from Vaas, or you, or maybe even himself. "Oh, god. You're lucky I'm desperate."

"That's right. Alright, come here. We gotta make this look good. Let me get in front of the window, okay?"

It really is like you don't exist. These two come from backgrounds that couldn't clash any harder, and here they are with this mutual understanding, Vaas leaning against the wall while Gabe pulls down his zipper, apparently not at all surprised that he doesn't wear anything under his pants. He goes to tug them down the rest of the way, but Vaas shoves lightly at his forehead.

"Hey, where's your manners? Ask." A humiliated flush creeping up his neck, Gabe murmurs something that sounds like _please,_ but it's not good enough. Vaas takes him by the hair and shoves his head down, puts a boot on the crown of his head and pushes him until he's face down in the floor, groveling. "You think I'm fucking kidding? _Ask._ Giving me that fucking stupid look, making me hold your hand here."

"Please." His voice sounds distant, thick.

"Try that again." Vaas hooks the toe of his boot underneath Gabe's chin, steering him up. It drops to his nailless hand a moment later and presses threateningly, making him wince. "Did I tell you to fucking look at me? Huh? Eyes _down,_ bitch. Now you quit bullshitting me and wasting my time, and you ask. Ask _nice._ "

Something horrible is unraveling in front of you and you can do approximately jack shit to stop it. Former choir boy, one-time hopeful for priesthood, genuinely funny and likable Gabriel begs Vaas to fuck him like a dog, and you can't see it very well, but you're pretty sure Vaas is playing with the zoom function. He whispers _go, go_ and Gabe works his pants down and starts giving him head, hesitating only when Vaas wrings a hand in his hair again.

"Don't rush."

And he doesn't. This isn't his first time, not by a mile, and he takes his time getting Vaas worked up, biting at his hips and leaving hickies across his thighs, licking his way up to Vaas' stomach to leave a few genuine bites there too. He actually has to be shoved down once or twice before he even pays attention to his dick, and even then he mostly teases, very aware of how he's driving Vaas fucking nuts with want. He's high out of his mind, you remind yourself, watching Vaas swear violently in Spanish and grind against Gabe's cheek, but there's just - something else there, you can feel it. Can read it in the way he gives those indulgent little hums and sighs and really, really works for it, makes it good.

Makes it good. Makes it a show. Makes it, you realize, as horrifically embarrassing for his parents as he absolutely can, because you finally get that this must be blackmail material. You also realize that you feel sick for a reason that has nothing to do with Gabe and everything to do with Vaas making you watch someone else blow him, pretending you aren't even there.

"Enough with the fucking footsie." Vaas yanks at his hair until Gabe's sitting pretty on his knees, head turned up towards the camera, panting. "Ladies and gentlemen of the internet, this! Is! Gabriel! Say hi, Gabriel."

"Hi, Gabriel."

"He's funny, huh?" Vaas takes him by the jaw and gives him a playful little shake, holds him by his hair and bumps his dick against his lips. "He's our fucking comedian, he makes everybody laugh around here. Gabriel, uh, what are you - what are you gonna do for us today? How are you going to _entertain your audience?_ "

"Sucking you off, I imagine."

"Nah. No." Vaas peeks out from behind the camera, eyebrows pinched. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? _I imagine?_ "

"Because _I imagine_ that that's what we'll be d--"

He gets a slap for that one, a backhand vicious enough to knock him on his ass, but he doesn't make a sound. Doesn't make a sound when Vaas hauls him back up by his hair, or when he sets the heel of his boot on Gabe's fingers. "You giving me fucking lip? You wanna disrespect me? Huh? You think I won't mail your fucking eyes to NBC?"

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I bet you are. Open." He guides himself into Gabe's mouth and starts petting at him again, thumbs over his reddening cheek, digs his thumb into a blackish blue bruise on his jaw. "Like that. Just like that. You do this kind of thing a lot?"

Gabe hums something noncommittal, does something with his tongue that nearly makes Vaas drop the camera. You feel like a voyeur, like a fucking window peeper looking in on something you shouldn't, but what else are you going to do? Sleep? Stare at the wall? Vaas _wants_ your audience, wants you to watch. Probably wants to make you jealous, as if that's even possible.

Right?

"What the fuck are you--" _doing_ trails off in a throaty noise as Gabe pins his hips to the wall and swallows, pulls off slow and hard, cheeks hollowed and eyes shut in concentration; Vaas snarls, fucks up into his mouth in a way that would have you gagging where Gabe only muffles a sharp noise in the coarse hair at the base of his dick, eyebrows pinched. He pulls off to breathe, lets a string of spit stretch and break between his lip and Vaas' dick, and holds his eyes for a moment - just a moment, face flushed and eyes heavy-lidded, leaning in to lap at the vein along the bottom. It's messy, showy, indulgent. It's right on the mark, too, if the way Vaas drags a line of pre across the bridge of his nose (and snickers _Simbaaaaa_ ) is anything to go off of.

You're not jealous, but you are a little envious. Gabe got to learn all of this with normal, probably sane people. All you really know is what Vaas likes.

At some point, Vaas doesn't let him pull back. He keeps Gabe flush against his pelvis, eyebrows tight with exertion. All Gabe can do is wait for him to let go. He waits, and waits.

And waits.

Vaas fucks his throat shallowly, waits for the struggling to start - it's familiar, he's done this to you before. Gabe ends up lasting longer than you ever could, playing with his balls and urging him to go harder, harder, even as he starts turning redder, then a light shade of purple. He doesn't dare bite, but once the switch happens - once he goes from urging Vaas on to trying to pull away from him, head shaking, eyes shot wide with panic - he pulls at Vaas' grip and rakes his nails down the back of his thighs and gets nowhere, tears wet on his face as he slams his fist on the wall in panic. Vaas doesn't budge.

You know this feeling. His heart is pounding in his ears and his chest is on fire, throat tight just the way Vaas likes it, and you can't stand to watch anymore, you can't.

"Stop!" You snap out before you really think about it, and the moment of surprise is just enough for Gabe to haul himself back for a quick breath. Vaas slams back into his throat a moment later, holding his head and earnestly fucking his face. "Vaas, st--he's not used to--"

"Did I fucking ask for your opinions? Huh? He _likes_ it." Vaas slides a boot between Gabe's legs and rubs against him, and to your surprise, he rocks his hips into it and struggles out a moan. "See? Bitch in heat. Maybe we should get a couple more guys in here, you like that idea?"

With the way Vaas snarls and bucks up into his mouth, you're pretty sure that's a _yes._ By the end Gabe is a mess, holding on to Vaas' knees for dear life and fighting for little gasps when he can, eyes glazed over with watery tears; Vaas lapses to the point where all he can do is cuss, head dropping back against the wall as he gets close, closer, closer--

"You ready for the money shot?" He yanks Gabe off of him, snatches one of his hands up and makes Gabe jerk him off, mouth hanging open as he pants for breath. "Yeah? Yeah? Fff-- _fuck--_ "

Vaas isn't usually much for facials, likes it more when you have to choke and swallow around him. (Anyway, that's how he likes it with _you,_ not that that matters right now.) You're decently sure he zooms in when he comes in Gabe's face, holding him in place until he's good and finished. It's... well. It's actually a little satisfying to see Gabe _finally_ looking unhappy with this, as terrible as that should probably make you feel, watching him crumple to the floor when Vaas lets go of him, reaching up to scrub at his face. Vaas stops him, setting a boot on his hand before he can get it there.

"No. Look at me." He grinds his heel in. " _Look at me._ You tell me thank you."

Another satisfying pause where Gabe's face falls, where he hesitates and looks away, snaps his head back up when Vaas adds pressure to his already bruised fingers. His voice is horribly rough, quiet, quavers just slightly when he has to acknowledge the camera. The fact that people are going to see this, watch him force out the words.

"Thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

"Thank you for..." He's struggling a little, trying to find the words that'll satisfy Vaas without sounding hokey and ridiculous. "...fucking my f... ace?"

"Good boy." The camera clicks off, and Vaas kneels down to set it aside and pull Gabe closer, licking the come and tears off his face in slow, indulgent fashion. Steering Gabe in for a kiss, watching the way he recoils slightly at the taste. Petting through his hair. It's a little sickening to watch, but Gabe is still riding a high that keeps him placid throughout all of this, mouth falling open as he indulges Vaas' post-sex clinginess.

That's usually you. That's your place in this hell, and while you don't envy Gabe for having it right now, you have to wonder whether or not Vaas is searching for a replacement.

"You and me, we're gonna have a lot of fun." Vaas slides his hand down the front of Gabe's oversized fatigues, licking along the curve of his arched neck, and - and he fucking _looks at you,_ meets your eyes and holds them while he jerks Gabe off. You watch him suck marks into Gabe's throat and flash a little grin as he scrapes his teeth over his jugular, and you realize that he's taunting you, withholding sex so that you have an opportunity to miss it.

Gabe bothers to tell Vaas when he's coming, nails dragging at his shoulder. Vaas takes the opportunity to hold your stare and say _that's it, baby, that's it, come for Daddy._ Something tightens low in your gut. It's fucking Pavlovian.

This son of a bitch.

"That's good, Gabe. I'm gonna call you Gabe, okay?" He dips down and licks up the mess on Gabe's stomach, slides his fingers in Gabe's mouth for him to suck clean. "You get some rest, amigo. We have a lot of filming to do tomorrow."

Vaas doesn't spare you another look as he leaves. Gabe won't either, crawling into bed and rolling on his side, facing away from you. You're vaguely aroused and he's completely humiliated, letting the high take him the way you wallow in memories that grow fainter by the day. You're quiet as you lay on your side, willing sleep to come.

"I'm sorry," Gabe finally says, bumping his shoulder against yours. "I know what he's doing to you, but I need it. This is... it's all I have left."

You don't answer.


	7. Chapter 7

For all the quiet he gave you that night, Gabriel makes it up three times over during the day, tagging along with you and Vaas on his rounds. His wrists are tied just in case, but Vaas doesn't seem to think he needs a leash like you do - he has no family, no money, no one waiting on him to come home, and all he really seems to care about is that he's topped up on drugs and good whiskey. It must be nice, even if it's sad. It must be nice to not care about anything besides feeling good, even if it means having literally nothing else left to live for.

It must be very nice. You have a developing plot to try to strangle Vaas with the chain of your handcuffs, so at least you have goals, but still - to do nothing but ride out whatever lasts of your life in as much comfort as possible, that has to be nice.

"You know, this isn't the worst place I could've ended up." Gabe shrugs, leaning against the wall of a building while Vaas chatters lightning fast on the radio. "Ask me, some other time, about the time I ended up in a Calcutta game of cards with a couple local crime lords. _That_ was a goddamn mess, let me tell you. On the positive side, one of them was an exotic animals dealer and bet me a tiger cub, which I won. Had to give it away before I tried leaving the country, mind you, but I can safely say that I've owned a tiger."

How much of this is bullshit? How much is he making up on the spot? Hard to tell. You sort of tune him out after a while, which he seems pretty used to; when he needs someone new to turn his attention to, he'll generally catch the attention of one of the passing pirates and start talking shit, but in a nuanced, vaguely polite kind of way - _you know, I really admire your work, it must be so exhausting to blow up civilian ships all the time. Did you want to be a modern pirate when you were a kid, or is this a more recent putting-myself-through-college sort of thing?_

The thing is - the thing is, you know that the bravado is just to mask how afraid he is. You've told him bits and pieces of what Vaas is like when he gets creative, and the real question is _how long_ Vaas is going to be interested in him at all. Sure, you've been here for... well, ever, but will Gabriel? What happens when he stops being useful?

Your continued existence isn't something you really actively work for - no matter what kind of game Vaas is running on you now, he needs you. Needs to watch you wither away and beg for death. But what purpose would Gabe serve, exactly?

"Okay, shit. Yeah." Vaas turns from the radio, starts off at a clip that nearly drags you off your feet (this is a normal occurrence). "Change of plan. There's some shit I need to do, so--" He unclips you from his belt and hands you to Gabriel, casual just like that, like you're nothing to him. He passes over the key to his cuffs as well. "--you. Take this back to the shack. You try to leave the camp and my guys are cleared shoot you, so don't dick around like you're gonna leave. Go find something to do."

You know Vaas must see how taken aback you are, must be watching from the corner of his eye. Gabriel seems surprised himself, accepting both your lead and the key with a sort of hesitance like he thinks this might be a trap. _Bang. Surprise motherfucker, you failed._ But it doesn't happen.

Vaas goes. _Leaves,_ hops in a jeep and sails off into the treeline without so much as a word to you. Gabe already has his handcuffs off, rubbing at his wrists, just sort of... staring off after him. Like he doesn't understand either. He glances over to you like an afterthought, tugging at your lead.

"Well, you heard him. Wouldn't want to get in trouble, now would we?" Gabe starts walking, pulling you along like a fucking dog. He seems oblivious to it, talking all the way there. About Paris and Singapore and his fucking cat, he just _talks so much,_ fills the silence you're perfectly comfortable with. Just after he closes you in the shack and locks you in, you swear you hear him say, quiet and genuine:

"I'm really sorry. Whatever shit he's trying to pull with you, I have nothing to do with it." Then, further away: "You should probably get some rest."

Like you don't know that. Like you haven't been here ten fucking times longer than he has. Vaas is running a game on you, that much is certain, but you have to wonder: is he really dense enough to think that he can play you like this? Is he trying to make you schoolgirl jealous of Gabriel, does he expect you to want to fight for his attention?

Or is it something else?

___

You're the camera guy. No matter how much a couple of the pirates know about running a video camera, vastly more than you do, you are always the camera guy.

"Is this - _really_ necessary?" They haven't gagged him, so Gabriel gets his complaining in while he can, the knees of his slacks going dark in that wet, sandy jungle dirt here at the northern edge of camp. He doesn't hide the trepidation in his voice this time, doesn't even try with the small group mingling around. It can't be any more than five or six guys total, all men you recognize as the ones Vaas is happiest with, but it's still - it's five or six men, not counting Vaas himself, and Gabe is understandably nervous.

"How we gonna make a decent sex tape without the big gangbang scene? _Relax._ You boys are all clean, right?" There's a murmur of _yeah_ and _sure_ and noncommittal shrugs that don't actually seem to comfort Gabe at all. Vaas makes a point of always going first in these situations - which you understand there have been a few of, this one aside - and now especially, considering he's the narrator. He kneels at Gabriel's side, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

"Gabriel would like to make a dedication for this segment of our program. Gabe?"

"To my mother and father: fuck you. Everyone else, here's a fun task! Check the stock value for my family's company and tell me they couldn't afford my ransom. Thank you."

"Family, right?" Vaas lights a cigar, pushes Gabriel to lie back against him, head resting on his shoulder. You realize that Gabe is trembling, eyes shut and jaw tight, hands twisting at the rope that pins them behind his back. "Shhhh, shh. Don't be scared, we're gonna have a lot of fun together. You're the _star._ "

He would never do this to you. Gabriel is back in the nice outfit you assume he was wearing when they took the ship, a dress shirt and a buttoned up suit vest and a tie in purple, and they're going to make an example of him, and Vaas would never do this to you. He licks at Gabe's pulse, sinks his teeth in slow, slips his hand down the front of his slacks while the guys waiting murmur and laugh amongst themselves, and he would never, never do this to you. You know this as a fact. You can feel it.

Vaas makes his turn quick, with respect to the others. He's three fingers to the knuckle when he fucks Gabe open, another man kneeling in front to lick into his mouth and kiss him, get him hot, get him wanting it - it's important that he wants it, because a plain rape, that's one thing. Gabriel moaning into the guy's mouth while Vaas grinds idly against his ass, pants rucked down just enough to fuck, knees spread in the dirt, that's another thing entirely. Gabe with his hands cut loose clawing at the ground and asking for more, even after Vaas finishes and a couple others descend to pick up where the boss left off, Gabe grabbing at the guy's hips and sucking him off like he means it, that's something you can blackmail with. You're there for it all, the silent witness, and - as you've been told - you get the best shots you can.

A few rounds in, they get him on his back and hike his hips up high, and you get in close just in time to catch him coming all over himself with an agonized howl. He's barely coherent. You don't realize you're stuck in place until Vaas comes out of _nowhere_ and takes the camera away from you, handing it off to someone else.

"You want to fucking slack off, huh?" He gets you by the hair, hauls you to the edge of the group. No one is paying attention to you two, not when they've got a warm body to keep themselves entertained with. Nobody sees Vaas hook his arm around your shoulders and turn you around, dragging you off towards the camp. "Fuck him 'til he breaks, boys. Hose him off and put him in the shack when you're done."

You're in a daze, almost, and it isn't until Vaas reaches around your waist and squeezes you through your pants that you realize you're hard.

"You like that, huh? What, you get off on watching that kind of shit?" He steers the two of you towards the long shadow cast by one of the watchtowers, and you're too dumbstruck to respond, his mouth dragging hot and open across the curve of your shoulder. "Maybe you want to be where he is right now."

Whether you do or don't isn't the issue, and you won't even examine your feelings on that. You take the moment where he dips in low against your throat to hook your arm around his neck and twist, dragging you both to the sand. He comes up snarling, but you're past the days of intricate plots and careful finesse, and you quite literally just try to beat the shit out of him this time around. It's wild, uncoordinated, animalistic. It's vicious and bloody. You come out of it with a mouthful of blood that isn't yours and a busted lip, pinned face down in the dirt, Vaas holding you down with his weight.

"Fucking _crazy._ " He sounds appreciative, almost fond - he hitches your hips up a little, struggling to stay balanced when you immediately throw an elbow in the direction of his face. It's a glancing blow, and he responds by biting into your arm and shaking his head a little, slamming your face into the ground before rolling you over and yanking your hair back, shoving his tongue halfway down your throat. How is he hard again? Why are you _still_ hard?

Because you're fucked up, and this is the only kind of foreplay that works for you anymore. You bite his tongue and he grunts in pain - and _laughs,_ he laughs as he drags his ragged nails down the left side of your face, leaving red marks prickling with blood. Hurt for hurt. Pain for pain. You're still hard.

"You miss me, baby?"

" _Fuck_ you." Get your arm loose. Punch him in the eye. Take the backhand without a sound, muffle the yelp when he digs his teeth into your old bite scars and tears them open again.

"You wanna play the frigid bitch? That's okay. But I know you, I know--" Vaas rolls his hips against yours, and fuck, it's been so long for you, you actually gasp. "--what you want."

He's making a point. He's been building up to making this point for a while, now. You haven't tried in earnest, but even playing with yourself does next to nothing for you - the last time you tried, you ended up hooking a hand around your throat and squeezing, and it felt good. You stopped immediately.

"Here's a secret: you're never gonna be like him. Forget about the gangbang. You really fucking think I'm going to let that happen?" He licks at a bite, sucks at it until the pain blooms white hot under your skin. "That's the thing you need to _get,_ hermano. You? Are mine. They don't deserve you. You're _mine._ "

You don't fight this kiss, mouth dropping open on instinct. All you can taste is blood, yours and his, there's so much blood. Ten minutes alone and you've torn each other to shreds all over again, and you kiss hot and coppery and wet, blood gone pinkish with saliva wet on his chin. You lick it away and hear his breath hitch, his forehead bumping against yours.

You don't mind the taste anymore.

"And you fucking need this. You need _me._ I'm the only one you're ever gonna need."

Is this what qualifies as A Moment, pinned at every single point of contact between you, all the malice and crazed... _craziness_ in his eyes gone? He looks young. He looks earnest.

But you can still see him for what he is. You know him. You know that this is an appeal to emotions that have long since atrophied in you, that he's trying to see if you've really hardened up the way he thinks you have - if all you have left in you is hate, or if he can still dig his fingers into a soft spot. You sneer, laughing low and hot in his face, and that familiar wet animal gleam in his eyes comes back in full force.

" _That's_ why you were trying to make me jealous? So I could reassure your fucking self-importance? _Fuck_ you, fuck this island, and fuck your ego. I don't need _shit_ from you."

You don't know what you expect. It certainly isn't Vaas laughing in your face, pushing off of you, dragging you up by your hair. It isn't his uncharacteristic silence as he takes you back to the shack. It isn't the lack of a kiss before he shoves you inside. How quickly he's gone after, probably - you know, because he heads off in that direction - to rejoin Gabe and the group.

You clean yourself up, and you go to bed. You're not entirely sure what time it is when they dump Gabriel on the mattress beside you, but you half believe he's dead.

___

You aren't in any of the videos - he doesn't want them to see you, to recognize you.

Gabriel is down for the count after yesterday, so there's no more filming for now; you spend the latter half of the day tagging along with Vaas and being paraded in front of them all, something none of them can have. The pirates that are into men are relatively few, and more than a handful got uncomfortable when Vaas was still being publicly affectionate with you (he isn't now, isn't barely paying attention to you), but your purpose is clear - you're many things here, but right now, you're a trophy.

You're not sure what to expect when he bypasses the shack and leads you to his place instead. It's a little building off on the side, secluded and draped in tattered red cloth, and you have to duck underneath a heavy fold of it just to get through the door. Whatever you might've imagined Vaas' living space to be like, it wasn't... this. It's actually pretty clean, for one. He doesn't have them in a nice glass case or anything, but you can tell that he's been collecting bottle caps and beer can tabs from the small piles of them sitting on one of the crates - he doesn't sleep in a bed so much as a nest, a few mysteriously stained mattresses thrown together and swamped in blankets and pillows. There's mosquito netting on the windows, but no glass.

But none of that matters at this exact second, because when you have to lift an arm up to get under the cloth, Vaas takes the opportunity to handcuff you to a water pipe. When you strike out with the hand you've got left, he lets you get a hit in, and you know his lip is going to swell later - maybe it's to pacify you for a bit, because he twists your wrist in a quiet threat to break it if you get too rowdy, his eyes holding yours as he kneels down. For a second, you almost think he's going to blow you.

He doesn't. The cock cage and accompanying harness is on before you know it, and even after you realize what he's doing, you don't fight it. This is that chastity shit, right? You can't get hard in this thing, couldn't touch yourself even if you wanted to - or if anyone else wanted to. You tell yourself it's no great loss, but honestly, are you so sure? The little padlock (a fucking padlock, really?) goes on next, and you feel building trepidation as you watch him finger the key, looking up at you through his lashes.

"You don't want to fuck me anymore? You want to fuck those other guys, huh?"

Oh Christ, he's jealous. Vaas keeps his tone light and conversational even as he digs his nails viciously into your thighs.

"You think they're better than I am? Do you fucking _think--_ " His tone jumps in an instant, and you flinch when he slams his hands on either side of your face, snarling. He looks like a dog. Like an animal. "--that you can just... take your pick? _Ha._ Ahah. No."

"I don't--"

He nearly puts his fist through the wall. It's an inch to your left, close enough that you can feel the breeze off his swing.

"I didn't _ask_ you. For your opinion. The way I see it, you go fucking cold fish for me, but you'll get it up for them? Which one is it? No - wait. Is it Gabriel? You just sick of being the bottom bitch, lover boy?"

He doesn't seem to want an answer, probably wouldn't care no matter what you said anyway. Vaas runs his fingertip from the cage to your chin, tilting it up so you have to look him in the face.

"I am going to teach you--" He whistles, tapping at his chest. "-- _graciousness._ You want to lie there? Okay. Okayyy." He tucks in close, pins your free hand to your side and murmurs into your ear, and shit, you've forgotten how good he smells. Like gasoline and sweat and just a little bit like blood, wrapped up in the overwhelming sweet stink of tropical flowers in the nearby jungle. "You want to be my pocket pussy? Okay. But I'm not wasting my fucking time trying to keep you satisfied. No more."

No more. Isn't this what you wanted, back in the beginning? For him to treat you like an object and nothing more? A year ago, maybe. Now he uncuffs you and shoves you towards his bed, pins you face down, rucks your and his clothes out of the way only just enough to fuck - uses enough lube for it to be comfortable, but makes no special effort to pleasure or hurt you when he presses in hard, holding you down by the back of the neck. It's not what you've grown accustomed to. It's not what you like (and he knows what you like). It's just plain business, fucking you only as fast and hard as he feels like. No bites, no kisses, no roaming palms, nothing. He doesn't even speak.

Isn't this what you should want?

You're bound to turn on sooner or later like this, little _ah ah ahs_ fumbling out of you whenever he happens to rub against your prostate, but it's - not - _enough,_ not with this cage forcing you to stay mostly soft, not with the harness that wraps around the base of your cock and sits snug around and between your balls, keeping orgasm at bay. You twist your hips and try to angle yourself right, but it doesn't _work,_ nothing is enough even with how long Vaas fucks. Instead of getting closer, you just get kind of sore; instead of dragging your orgasm out of you just as hard as he can, Vaas doesn't even pay attention while you squirm - he actually stops to _light a fucking cigar,_ and then he's yanking you back into position, taking his time. He's even quiet when he comes, strangled noises faint in the back of his throat while he rocks into you and rides it out, pulling out all businesslike when he's done, wiping himself off onto your shirt.

He stands, tucks himself back in, tightens his belt again. He won't even look at you.

"You're staying here now. With the rest of the furniture." Harsh. He pulls another drag off the cigar, heading for the door. "You sleep in the corner, you eat when I eat, we fuck when I feel like fucking. Don't talk to me. Don't touch me."

In the doorway, he glances back, but not at you. It's at some spot over your head. He won't even _look_ at you.

"Clean yourself up. If I get back and you're still dirty, I'm kicking the fucking shit out of you."

This door locks from the outside too. Dragging your pants back up, you have to wonder if that's a recent addition.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK
> 
> BACK AGAIN
> 
> IE one, thank you guys for all the likes and comments! This totally blew up and got way more popular than I thought it would, but I'm glad to hear everybody's enjoying my sick self-insert fanfiction. Not a sentence I ever saw myself writing, but there you go.
> 
> Secondly, sorry for the wait! I have no excuse other than I'm an asshole, but the reviews asking for more totally worked. I don't really reply to reviews because I'm too shy, but I do read every one of them! You guys are great, basically.

"There?"

Right there. He's good with his hands, has those long pianist fingers and knows how to curl them just right to make you stumble over another whimper. You don't trust your voice, have to bite into your wrist just to be safe, so you nod sharply instead. He hums against the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there as he pulls his fingers out, then works back in with a third. It's _good._ Fuck. It's so goddamn good.

And it isn't Vaas. Gabriel is careful not to leave marks, all soft nibbling and warm tongue while he has you spread across his lap, rubbing tight circles over the spot that has you fucked out and desperate for him.

Vaas still won't look at you, won't talk to you - it's been a month and he isn't budging on whatever bullshit he's playing, and while it wasn't so bad in the beginning, you're starting to feel the strain. You still get fucked, but you never get to come. It's this excruciating rollercoaster climb that has no drop, just this unsatisfying backslide into nothingness; you're getting desperate now, but no matter how hard you try to get yourself off, it never _works._ After he caught you fucking yourself with his flashlight, Vaas has taken the liberty of removing everything you could possibly shove up your ass. But more than the physical discomfort, even if you won't admit it, there's another aspect that's even worse.

Fuck, you're _lonely._ Haven't been out of Vaas' place since he put you here, haven't had anyone to talk to, and it's starting to drive you fucking crazy. You actually feel like an object, like furniture, and that's enough to drive anyone nuts. So naturally, when you hear Gabe on the other side of the door one evening, you crowd up against it immediately.

" _Gabriel?_ Gabriel!" He's got his back to you, leaned up against the wall, and of all people, your heart plummets when he doesn't acknowledge you. "Fuck you, Gabriel, answer me! _Gabriel!_ "

"Will you _shut up?_ They're going to hear you."

It's the first time anyone's responded to you in weeks. It's almost painful, the wash of relief at feeling like a human being again. Gabe won't look at you, but now you recognize that it's to keep up appearances - otherwise, why would he be settling closer and closer to the door like that?

"You're still alive? I haven't seen you in... Christ, _forever._ "

"He's playing a fucking game, Gabe, he won't - _talk to me,_ he won't do shit, I'm going fucking crazy." The words roll out of you breathlessly, crammed up against the door like you are, peering through the gap between the door and the wall like grasping at a lifeline. "He's playing a fucking _game._ He's--"

"Alright, calm down." He speaks quickly, businesslike. "Tomorrow night, Vaas is going to meet up with that boss of his - Holt? Shit, I don't know. He'll be gone. I'll come around then."

"Are you... alright?" You interrupt him seamlessly, trying to look at his face through the crack. You can't. He turns just enough to keep himself hidden.

"Alive. That has to count for something, doesn't it?"

"Around here? Yeah. It does." You huff a laugh, dry and breathy. Your voice is rough from days, weeks of disuse. He hums to acknowledge that you've even spoken, but he doesn't laugh. "Are you still... is the video done yet?"

"It is. I've been such a good sport throughout all of it that he hasn't bothered to come kill me yet. Doesn't think I'll cause trouble. Everything I could want is right here, isn't it?" Now he laughs, but if you could see his eyes, you know it wouldn't reach them. "They'll probably want to sell me off, but I'm trying to avoid that." A beat. "I have to go. Tomorrow evening, remember?"

"Yeah." You sound quieter. "Tomorrow."

He strolls away like your place was pure happenstance, and just in time. Vaas comes back not five minutes later to crash, chaining you up to the pipe for the night. But it doesn't matter, and that it doesn't bother you seems to bother him a little when he's cuffing you, although not nearly enough to shake words out of him. And that's fine. You? You're thinking about tomorrow.

\---

"Keep your voice down," he reminds you, and you're trying. Fuck, it's just been so _long._ Not five minutes into the visit, he made the offer, and you stumbled over yourself to accept it. It didn't matter how. You didn't mind the technical aspects. You were certain you could make the timing. As long as it was an orgasm, you'd take it. Now he's got you across his lap, going for quality over speed as he works your body like trying out a new instrument, seeing what works and what doesn't. God, is it _working._

"Please--" Your pleading comes automatically these days. "Please let me--"

He shushes you, stilling. Genuinely stilling. You both listen hard to the rain outside, and he picks up the pace, working you harder. Christ, it's good. Christ, you want to _come,_ and he's finally going to let you, he's going to let you. You could cry.

The sound of Vaas' voice just outside the door could make you cry. A lot of things happen at once: Gabriel dives back behind the mattress mountain and out of sight, you take a satisfactory pose on the bed with your fingers in your ass, and Vaas strolls in and looks at you, all trembling with frustration and the steadily sinking edge. You're near tears.

"I was so fucking _close,_ " you growl out to both men in the room. Vaas is the only one who reacts, coming closer. You're in his bed, in his sheets, in his house, masturbating furiously with his name in your mouth - it all sees him weirdly tense, frozen with what you can only assume is indecision. He obviously means to ignore you to make some kind of point, not that you have any goddamn clue what that point is supposed to be, but if sex were ice cream, you'd be doing the equivalent of playing that ice cream man song right now. It would take a saint to ignore you, and even then it might be tough.

He moves fast. You're on your belly before you know it, listening to the tinkle of a belt and his hard, steady breathing as he does whatever it is he's doing. You don't have time to look back before he hooks a couple fingers in your mouth and gets you to suck on them, and then he's spitting, watching you brace yourself on the side of a mattress.

When he bottoms out in a rough jab of his hips, you sob in relief, squeezing tight around him until he swears.

He's not gentle. You're not sweet. This isn't lovemaking, or sex, or "a meeting of souls" or whatever else it might be called - this is _fucking,_ hard and loveless, and he smells like blood. He leaves palm prints of it on you, on the mattresses, feels tacky when he sets his forehead against your shoulder. Why is there so much _blood?_

"Why is--"

" _Shut up,_ " he hisses, slapping a hand over your mouth, and the next time you lick your lips you can taste it. What he's done isn't important. What he's going to do isn't important either. Who he killed and how he killed them, how many there were, if there were any kids - none of it matters to you anymore. The world has narrowed to this island, to this camp, and to this man. At this particular moment, it narrows further to how he's fucking. You reach back and dig your nails into his pants, his skin, anything to haul him closer, and he pins you with his weight to keep you from squirming and _fucks you,_ and it's good, it's good, it's so good.

You were already close, so you come first, and it is _lovely._ The old world Ninja Turtle artists could never replicate its beauty. Bernini would be frozen with despair. There's that burning bush guy story in the Bible, right, where he sees shit, and it's _still_ better than that. In some small way, it changes your life. It might've caused a slight earthquake in China.

It's a really good orgasm, basically. You feel hazy, and boneless, and for a moment, you lose your sense of guile.

"Oh god, Vaas, oh god, oh god, _yes,_ " you mumble, and his self-control frays. He flattens you with his weight, which is uncomfortable, but the strained little noises he makes are worth it. The past month has been shitty for the both of you, and even though he's fucked you regularly, he's only just now _really_ coming, isn't he? You tremble and hum with satisfaction beneath him, limbs not quite willing to cooperate at that exact second, and continue to do so even when he pulls back, hovering over you.

"Hey." It's the first time he's talked to you in a month. You tilt your head towards him to show that you're listening. His voice is deadly calm. "Who the _fuck_ lubed you up, huh?"

Your blood goes to ice. Somewhere behind you, Gabriel's probably does too. You think of saying anything - _no, yes, that's bile, I don't know_ \- and when you open your mouth to say it, none of it come out. Your laughter surprises the both of you, hard to the point of pain, because some part of your brain is realizing you're going to die because you just needed to get laid. He's stupid jealous over nobody, but now he's got enough cause to be pissed. You both know that.

Dying with your dick out. Not really how you wanted to go.

"I - can explain that." A soft, terror-mellow voice off to the side. You can't see, but Vaas' head snaps around. "I wasn't going to fuck him."

Gabriel, you stupid _shit._ He tosses something to Vaas, who catches it one-handed. You're trying to roll over, but he's gone ahead and sat his fat ass on you, half-smothering you in these grimy sheets while he sits up. Vaas' voice comes surprisingly even.

"Why?"

"Because I feel bad for him." Plain, matter-of-fact. His voice is moving, and you can already picture it: that slow, pained stride people have whenever they know they're about to get bit. Short little steps, not knowing exactly how it's going to happen or how bad it's going to be. The green mile walk. "You should take better care of your things."

He's dead. He knows he's dead. Vaas finally gets the fuck off you, dropping the hotel-sized minilube at an angle where it soaks the back of your shirt, and his footsteps are unbearably loud as he heads to the middle of the room and gestures for Gabriel to come forward. You see the tremble in the man's hands when he does what he's told, stepping gingerly over a mattress to stop in front of Vaas - when you roll on your side, you see the flat, calculating look on Vaas' face.

"You got some fucking balls, rich boy. Eurotrash. Coming into _my_ house - in _my_ camp - and handling _my_ shit. Okay? Getting your little cockbeaters all over _my_ shit." He taps on his chest with both hands, indicating himself. "Were you raised in a fucking barn?"

"I was--"

"Shut the fuck up." It's not a scream. He just says it a little louder than conversationally, which is more than enough to shut Gabriel up. "You have _violated_ my privacy, hermano. I have been _violated._ Huh? _Comprende,_ motherfucker?" A beat. "You know what I'm going to do?"

You're both still as the grave. Vaas gives a dramatic pause, then speaks in a sigh.

"I'm going to forgive you." Neither of you say anything. He makes himself casual, even laughing a little. "That's the big thing, right? Forgiveness? Live and let live? Because I am so kind, and reasonable, and - kind, I forgive you."

God help Gabriel, still too wet behind the ears to know the difference between Fun Vaas and Pretending To Be Fun But Is Actually Murderous Vaas. You can't say anything, and you don't bother trying - his fate is sealed. Nothing you could say or do would save him now. You can only hope that it's quick. Vaas hooks an arm around Gabriel's shoulders and leads him to the door, as chatty and nonchalant as ever. He throws you a lingering glance over his shoulder before he goes, something unreadable. Interest, definitely. Concern, maybe. Flatness, disdain.

There's a window. Once the door locks, you pile up against it to watch the massacre. It's rubbernecking at its worst, but you're transfixed at the sight of the two of them heading to a big bonfire with a bunch of the other guys, sitting down to drink and laugh and generally do what you're not expecting them to do. It's thirty minutes of watching, maybe, or an hour. Vaas is laughing hysterically about something, grabbing Gabriel by the arm and dragging him, willing, off to the side. Pushing him back against a wooden pole, then watching two of the guys jump up - as if directed - and wrap him in a length of coarse rope. Gabriel's got it in his head to start panicking now, boots stirring up the sand, hands grasping violently at nothing. Vaas strolls off cheerily, filling his plastic cup from a tank off to the side of one of the buildings, not from whatever they've been drinking so far - he comes back with playfulness in his body language.

 _You think you can fuck with me?_ You can already hear it. _You think you can fuck my bitch? Cutting you up would be dulling a perfectly good knife, amigo. You get something else._

That's probably not what he actually says, but when he tosses the cupful of gasoline into Gabriel's face and waves his cigar around for all of them to see, does it really matter? It gets the general gist down. Gloating. Terror. The sick delight of watching something horrible happen to someone that isn't you. You're not sure what you feel when Vaas turns to the pole, tossing the cigar. Anger, maybe. A flush of emotion you thought you'd lost a long time ago - sadness, horror, the ability to care for another human being. None of it actually matters. Your feelings will change nothing, in the end. They mean nothing.

Vaas actually fucks up the first time, and the cigar drops, smothered in the sand. He has to have one of his guys hand him a book of matches to actually light the fire, which goes up immediately. There's whooping. Drinking. Vaas stands back to appreciate his work, running a hand through his hair, and Gabriel screams and screams and screams. They toss another cup of gas to make sure his entire body lights up, rather than just the face. Because they're thorough, of course. You can't half-ass burning someone alive.

One dead-eyed thought rises above all the others: it's an agonizing death, but there are worse ways to die. When the entire camp is filling with the smell of cooked meat, it's as good a thought as any other, and you'll take it, sitting down in your little corner while things wind down outside. He could've been skinned. Could've been crushed. Could've been fed live to wild animals. And getting off this island - that's just a mercy killing, isn't it? Getting away from here. Getting away from Vaas.

You don't mean to choke. Don't mean to do it again. You're actually afraid you're having some kind of medical emergency until the tears start, and it's been so long, so long since you last cried, let everything around you really sink in. The walls are back down like they never existed at all, and suddenly you are completely alone again, trapped and tormented and scared out of your mind. It's just you again.

Well, you and him.

Vaas comes back later, after the fire is smoldering and the camp has mostly settled for the night. You don't actually see him come in, folded up in the fetal position against the wall and all, but his footsteps shake you out of an already shaky slumber. When he stands over you, you don't bother looking up at him, lifting your wrist obediently so he can chain you to the wall again. It's actually embarrassing for him to see you like this again, after all this time. Crying belonged to the you of a lifetime ago.

You're not expecting to be hauled up against his chest instead, his chin on your shoulder, his arms wrapped around your middle to trap yours at your sides. Even mild struggling gets him pulling you closer.

"Aw. So sad." He reeks of tobacco, his cheek scratching affectionately against yours. "Did you love him?"

"No, but I liked him." Your voice is humiliatingly weak. "I liked him."

"He got what was coming. You're _mine._ "

The snarl is genuine enough that you shudder, turning your head away. He takes the opportunity to bite at your neck, since you've had time for the bruises to go down. You won't stay unmarked for long.

"You get that, baby?" He grabs you through your pants, reminding you of the cage. "It got you in trouble. I mean, how do I know that you're not spreading for every swinging dick that comes by here? Huh? You never get it up for me unless I make you, but you pitch a fucking tent whenever that guy was around. I got jealous. I thought you were _cheating_ on me."

His grip tightens.

"And I was fucking right."

The bite is hard enough to draw blood almost instantly. It's a bad, bad bite too, lockjaw like a pit bull, and while you pride yourself on your pain tolerance, you can't help but wail when he starts to chew. It hurts more than any other bite he's given you. More than half the beatings he's given you. Christ, it _hurts._

He spits a mouthful of something at your feet. It takes you a minute to realize it's a chunk of your shoulder.

"New plan. I - am gonna fuck you up." He bites at your ear. It's too hard to feel good. " _So_ bad, baby girl. You wanna fuck around? _See other people?_ That's - hey, hey, hey--" He has to smother more of your horrified screaming with his palm. "--hey, shut up, I'm talking? I'm gonna make you fucking sing, canary. I'm gonna be God."

He tuts, dropping a hand to squeeze you through your pants. The cage makes things difficult, but he draws your attention to the fact that you're not entirely soft.

" _Sick fuck._ I hurt you, say I'm gonna hurt you more, and that fucking does something for you?" He laps open-mouthed at your nape. "You belong here, hermano."

"I know," you say, dizzy from the pain and the dawning realization that he's going to ruin you. Ruin you _more._ "I know."


	9. Chapter 9

He has you moved back to the cages. That way, you can share a tight bamboo cell with Gabriel's barbecue-smelling corpse, because remember, it's _your fault._ It's not just you versus him anymore - people are dying. People around you die. He takes every opportunity to remind you of that. It's still nice to be outside. Buck may have been right - you're a little pampered - but you get used to the infrequent meals and the occasional few sips of water, sleeping on the ground and doing battle with all the insects that come for the corpse beside you. It actually works fairly well until that one evening you really lose your mind.

"Gabriel, I just don't know." You sit shoulder to shoulder with his corpse, which has begun to stink. Your voice stays at a murmur. "What should I do? He's trying to break me. Stupid fuck actually thinks this is doing something to me. I'm having a _great_ time with you, Gabe. Are you having fun?"

The corpse says nothing. You smile placidly at it, hearing Gabe's voice clear as anything. _A whole goddamn lot of fun. Except for the burning alive._

"I didn't know that would happen."

_I died because of you. I died because I was nice to you._

"Great, now you _sound_ like him. Look, I'm sorry. You should have let me take the punishment instead. I'm in great condition. I'm fed, I'm not sick, and I am totally, absolutely mentally prepped for his bullshit. I'm way saner than he is."

Someone next to you sobs. You roll your eyes and glance over at the newest batch of intake - bunch of teenagers and twentysomethings dressed nicely. Yacht party? They're shivering with fear, like they have any chance at convincing the pirates to let them go if they just look scared. Some beg for food and water. A pirate drops trou and pisses on them. _Drink that._ Some are injured. Some talk about dead friends and relatives. The days have passed and they look worn, eyes dull with horror.

They've looked at you. Your grimy clothes, your dirty hair, your total lack of fear. The name on your face.

"That's his name," you tell them, making one or two jump. The pirates shuffle, glance at each other, say nothing. "Vaas. He owns the island. He fucks me sometimes too, but not lately. He's the one with the mohawk and that _stupid fucking face?_ I'm sure you remember him." You tap the scar. "He's a very great man. A very powerful man. I'm going to cut his _fucking tongue_ out and _eat it._ "

Is that not how they talk? With volume that rises and drops steadily, goes from serene to murderous in a second? How do normal people talk? They seem afraid of you, but of course they do. You're the worst possible scenario for them.

"He put the island in me," you say, turning back to your cage. You've long since torn up all your clothes to look the same: whatever he gives you from raiding bags, it ends up a sleeveless tank and pants, jeans and cutoffs and fatigues and whatever he sees fit to give you when your old clothes get too filthy. "I was like you. I was _just like you._ What year is it?"

"2009," the brave one says, and you hitch with hyena cackling.

"Two years! I'm - I think I'm 25 now. He put the island in me." Your voice fills with emotion. "I can't go back. I belong here."

What follows is a slightly embarrassing crying fit that's been building for what may be a year now, ugly crying, snotty and hard and choking until you feel like you're gonna die. Your knees to your chest, your face buried in your knees, you sit there and sob for what feels like hours. Your head is pounding. God, even your teeth ache.

You don't notice the way the others fall deadly silent. You do notice the admittedly nice handkerchief draped across your knees, then waved in your face.

"Aw. So sad." You take the handkerchief from him wordlessly, quick about mopping your face. You soak it, then toss it at his feet. "What? You don't like it?"

"Bring me a paper towel next time. Absorbs more."

"Okay." Vaas is so gentle about how he reaches in, pets your face. "Been a long time since you cried, American boy. These people bothering you?" Then, to the prisoners, suddenly yelling: "Are you _fucking_ bothering him?"

"They're fine," you say, and know that every one of them knows that they owe you. Vaas glances back, eyebrows raised. "Bunch of kids."

"Aww. They are, huh?" He glances over them now, eyes impassive and calculating. The smart ones shrink away. The proud, soon-to-be-dead ones try to hold his eyes. With a little snicker, he taps his chest. "Is your heart bleeding for them, hermano?"

"They're shit for conversation. We're different." He drags his thumb across the raised letters of his name, lifts the shut lid of an eye that sees nothing. Your lips. Your chin. Your pulse. He stops there, thumb pressing gently against your windpipe. "We're different."

"That's right," he purrs. "You sure as fuck aren't them anymore. You hear me? _You are not them._ " He puts emphasis on it, his thumb pressing down just a bit more. "You're stronger. You're a killer. _Mi pequeño tigre._ "

His thumb presses against your pulse, and the instant he realizes what's going on - when he feels the slow, steady beating of murderous calm - you grab him by the wrist and yank him against the bars, trying desperately to choke him. You drag him close. His face is against the bars and you're tensing for the lunge.

If he'd been a second late, you would have bitten off Vaas' nose. He pulls back enough that you can't reach him, but there's still the issue of your admittedly strong grip on his throat. You threaten to collapse it. He has to snap something off his belt and spray you in the face to get you off, and then it's just pain, pain, pain. Fucking pepper spray. Somewhere in front of you, he swallows a sharp breath and pushes himself up again. There's no laughter. There's no rage. There's just him, a blurry mix of colors that fills you with a poisonous hate you couldn't articulate with Shakespeare on the job and Picasso on hand to illustrate.

You're blind, your tear-streaked face pushed against the bar, and you can't see him. But you can reach for him.

"You really, really, really fucking hate me, huh?"

"I would fucking _die_ if it took you with me. I'd give up anything. I'd eat my own fingers. I - I would--"

You stumble off, falling entirely silent when he takes your outstretched hand and links your fingers together. It's a lover's touch.

"I know. It's... that is _fucking beautiful,_ hermano." He squeezes your hand reassuringly. His voice is colored with genuine emotion, proud and giggly and infinitely amused. "That's all you are anymore! _Hate._ Anger and hate. Every bit of you--"

He points to you, points to himself, wide-eyed and entirely genuine and terribly _knowing._

"Hates every bit of me."

He's high, but good high. Normally he's just regular high. You hate good high, because you can't predict what he'll do - his moods operate on extremes already, but more so in a good high, so fun can go to bad very, very fast. He's kissing your knuckles now, and your body responds after years of hard, exhausting training he nailed into you inch by inch. You still can't see, but he must glance up and see your face, because he snickers against the inside of your wrist.

" _Needs_ me. You're a _leech,_ you know that? You know that, amigo?" But his mouth is brushing up the inside of your arm, beard scratching at the sensitive spot on the inside of your elbow. His last few words come rough in your ear.

"You gonna show them how good I fuck you? All these nice, pretty people?" He's pulled you up against the bamboo, licking at your throat. "I'll make it good. Real good. Best fuck of your life, hermano, and that is motherfucking _guaranteed._ "

You hate him. You hate him so much.

"I want a bath and new clothes," you say, because you know the game by now. It's like haggling over antiques, except the fancy lamp is your ass. "Regular water and food."

He hisses, but it's not angry. "Needy bitch. Hey, how 'bout I get that corpse outta there too? It's starting to smell."

"What? _No._ " You pull back, genuinely affronted. When you touch Gabriel's leg, the skin moves. "Gabriel is fine. We're having good conversations. I get to keep Gabriel."

Even Vaas looks mildly disturbed for a moment, as do the guys guarding nearby things and all of the captives (one starts crying). You don't really get why. After a moment, he just shrugs.

"Yeah, whatever. _Hey Gabe._ " He whispers it overdramatically for some reason. "Mind if I borrow your boy here, Gabe?"

_Only if you bring him back in one piece._

"Only if you bring him back in once piece," you say, absolutely guileless. Everyone seems vaguely uncomfortable with this. "Don't worry, Gabe. Don't look." The cage door opens. Your eyes start clearing just enough to see the empty sockets give you a reassuring glance. "Or do, I guess. You know how it is."

_Go get 'em, tiger._

You're smiling for the first time in ages as Vaas hooks you under the arms and drags you out onto the dirt and into his lap. There are so many people watching, and that finally hits you when you glance over and meet at least thirty pairs of wondering, terrified, and just plain guilty eyes.

"In front of everybody?"

"That's the _point,_ baby girl. It lets all those motherfuckers out there know who you belong to. We belong to each other, don't we?" His lips graze that spot under your ear. _We belong to each other._ Something about it sounds pleasant, if not right - something else about it makes you sick. "It's like saying, 'this is mine. You don't fucking touch what's mine. Nobody can hurt him - or fuck him - or kill him but me. He's _mine._ '"

The growl on that last syllable comes with a slight squeeze around you and a flutter of arousal down in your gut, which you're too tired to be ashamed of anymore. The translation: my guys already know not to touch you, but it'll be fun for everybody to be talking about this later. I want to brag about it. I want to terrify the caged people with it. And I just really, really--

"Want to fuck you in public," he admits, hand slipping under your shirt. "I like it when people watch. So, what's the wordie, birdie?" He snickers at his own joke, thumbing over your abs. Because either from exercise or starvation and exercise, you have abs now. He likes them. "Can I fuck you?"

It's the first time he's asked. For some reason, it's terrifically arousing.

"Yeah." He giggles, flattening you into the dirt with a grin. "Fuck me, Vaas."

Oh, but something about that sentence coming willfully is terrifically arousing to _him_ if the sudden press of his hips says anything. You're both dirty and sticky with jungle sweat, pawing at each other like teenagers for all the awkward jabs and accidental pinching that goes on, but you have a rhythm to it. You have a messy, angry rhythm, hard like the blunt of your teeth when you bite and click them, sharp like your nails scratching down along his stomach. God, he's solid. Of course none of your earlier attempts worked, they were too physical. Vaas is short - he's also built like a brick shithouse.

This time, kissing him is an experience. He's almost too much, hard and demanding and dominant, but he's overwhelming in a way that leaves you mindless by the time he's done, fucked out before you've even fucked. Mouth open, head back - he leaves bites across your throat that nearly break the skin, and some that do. The softer ones hurt and then settle into a warm, pleasant throb. The bloodier ones are a constant pang of pain, searing whenever you move and stretch the skin. And it's _good._ You're a sick, sick puppy, but the pain and danger is a thrill, getting you rutting your hips into his before he's even hit your collarbone.

"Easy, baby!" He seems delighted, leaving another blunt bite at your shoulder. "Why the fuck you rushing? You got somewhere to be?"

"I want it _now._ " You surprise yourself with how demanding it is, and seem to surprise him a little bit too. "I just really, really--"

"Want it," he says, biting directly over your jugular. "I know. We'll get there. But first you gotta get into it, you know? Get that, uh - _je ne sais quoi_ shit going."

He mangles it. Someone in the cages is stupid enough to correct him.

"Shut the _fuck up!_ " He hurls a nearby canteen at the bars, making them all squeal in terror. "I am _trying_ to get fucking laid here? Okay? You wait your fucking turn, Frenchie!"

You snort laughter beneath him, and he grins down at you, and for a moment it's so, so perfect. He's funny, and mindblowingly hot, and not psychotic, and not a mass murderer, and not a slaver, and not a rapist, and - and he would look great with a knife through his eye, you think, imagining it while he snickers and leans down to kiss you again, his hands twitching near your throat. You won't be able to kill him now, but there will be opportunities. There will be many more opportunities.

"Jesus, c'mon - get this shit off." You pull his tank mostly over his head, getting him to slap your hands away and finish it, tossing it aside. You go for his fly next.

"Ah- _ah._ " Vaas slaps your hands away, obviously taking in your tank and fatigues. "You wait."

Of course he rips your shirt. Of course he ruins _another shirt,_ because everybody on this fucking island likes to tear and cut your shirts off of you, apparently. You reach for his fly again, get slapped away again - he's got his mouth everywhere, licking your abs and raking his teeth over a nipple, hands dragging down your ribs, scratching their way to the small of your back and grabbing handfuls of your ass. It's a lot, he's a _lot,_ and you finally have to drag him down and fit your bodies together, your knees spread wide to make room for him, and kiss at his throat. He tenses, but you don't bother stopping. You plant a long lap of tongue over his carotid, letting him know that you know where to bite.

It isn't a sure thing, though. When you attack next, it has to be a sure thing.

Nobody fucks him this way except you, and you're both getting off hard on the danger of fucking someone who really, really wants to kill you. What did he call you earlier? His tiger? Didn't Buck say something about a tiger, too? You like it, even if it's only because you keep trying to bite things. Speaking of, you find a nice spot on his shoulder free of bite marks and plant the newest, hardest one there, jaws locking, a little moan in your throat when you feel him tense and swear and _hurt._ He pulls you off easy, pins you back down with a snarl.

"What the fuck was that?" He's right in your face. "Huh? What the _fuck?_ "

You stick out your tongue and show the blood, and you swear you hear him groan something obscene in Spanish, ducking down to crush his mouth against yours. The crowd is deadly silent except for very quiet sobbing, and the guards sure as fuck aren't saying anything. You get the background noise of the camp and the constant, dull roar of the jungle as mood music, and it's fitting, it's really fitting. It's also fitting that the first loud groan is yours, his hand palming you roughly through your pants.

"You're not wearing any underwear, amigo." He tucks his mouth in the crook of your neck, grinning. "I know I gave you some last time."

"You don't either, asshole." You grab him in turn, getting a choked noise. "Who the fuck wears underwear in this heat anyway?"

"Those motherfuckers over there."

"Fair."

It feels so good to _talk._ You refused to talk to yourself, because that might've driven you crazy - this way you've been able to keep a grip on your sanity. Very well, you think. It's still nice to sneer and spit and... well, that's pretty much all you do with Vaas unless you count biting and kissing and kissbiting, which you do plenty of.

"Can we--"

" _Not yet,_ " Vaas says, cutting you off. "Want you to do something for me first, pretty boy. Want you to sit on my face."

"You--" must not have heard that right. "--what?"

He rolls his eyes, dragging you up onto your knees by the front of your shirt. "Come on. I've eaten your pretty ass enough times to know how to do it."

"Yeah, but what if I smother you? I want to kill you, but I don't want to do it by smothering you with my ass."

"Aww. That's so cute." He yanks your pants down to your knees in one solid sweep. Some of the prisoners glance away sharply, but some of the guards are obviously watching. One is even eating. "You _worry_ for me. If I need you off, I'll get you off."

He snickers, lying down. You shrug out of your pants and try not to suddenly realize that thirty or so people are within immediate sight of you getting rimmed by the insane pirate king that runs the place. It makes you a little hesitant to climb on top of him until he slaps your thigh, getting you to move faster.

"Face the other way." Towards his boots, alright. You're still not moving too terribly fast, so he grabs you, steers your hips down, and--

"Oh." That's always what you say. You try to shift your weight to give him a little air, but he just hauls you back down and scratches at you with his beard, making you jump and swear. He's good like he always is, and before long you're leaning forward and gripping at the fabric of his pants, grounding yourself. You're trying to be nice, _trying_ to not accidentally injure him or piss him off when you have your cock out, but he's relentless until you finally moan, squeezing at him with your thighs, and shift your weight back. He's more enthusiastic when you get with the program, your nails scratching at his chest. When you pinch his nipple, he jolts and bites the exact spot you have to sit on.

With his mouth, you didn't stand a chance. Before long you're grinding down on him, vocal and needy and _oh god oh god fuck me god dammit Vaas--_

Your dick is wet and your hands tremble when you shove his pants out of the way and get your hand on his cock, feeling him tense and groan. When you do it like this, you don't have to remember the fucking _crowd_ of people watching while you moan and rock hard on his face, his hands jumping to steady your hips. He was already hard, but under your palm he's even _harder,_ letting you swirl your thumb around the head and spread the precome there. He is really, _really_ into this, isn't he? You duck forward before he can drag you back and take the head of his cock in your mouth, sucking hard until his hips snap hard against your face, when he lets out a dangerously slutty little moan.

It embarrasses him. It has to. He can't see your victorious grin, but everyone else watching can. Then they can watch him sit up and shove you off, and watch you roll over in time to see him yank his pants back up. Well, he's never done that before.

"You want to fuck around, huh? Put on a good show?" He grabs himself through his pants. "You're gonna earn this, cabron."

"While I'm young, Vaas," you sneer, and he sneers right back at you like _challenge accepted._ You hear a popped cap, assume the position, and breathe out slow when he works two fingers into you. It's been... a while, really, so there's a little burn. He adds a third and scissors, and then there's a _lot_ of burn, and you're biting into your wrist and trying not to tense. He shushes you, curling in deeper.

"Shhhh. It's okay." Him pumping his wrist is not helping. You swear under your breath. "It's gonna be okay. Sit still, alright?"

He gives your ass a slap and just strolls off, and then you're saddled with the awkward task of staying ass up in front of a whole bunch of people with nothing to distract you.

"I'm really sorry about this." They stare back, uncomprehending. "Really. This happens on the regular. I mean, just ask my cellmate Gabe."

They all look increasingly horrified by your existence, which you're okay with, really. It's not long before he's back. You try to look back at him and sit up, but he steers you back down by the back of your neck.

"It's alright. I can fuck around too."

You've had his fingers in you, so it's not painful - you just have to let out a low _uhn_ when he seats what feels like a toy in you. It's a little big. You wince, but then he's pulling you into a sitting position.

"You're gonna earn this dick."

They tackle you and zip-tie your hands before you know to fight it. You're an animal instantly, snarling, snapping at his fingers when he tries to touch your face, and he jerks them back sharp, mock-surprised.

"Daaaamn, baby. Rein that shit in. You look prettier the other way."

You've figured out the scheme before they get your pants back on you, but the first flick of the switch is still a surprise, earns a sharp gasp and a twitch of your hips that sends him into laughter. With a jerk of his head, you're dragged back to your cell and handcuffed - for your comfort, you imagine, and hate him even more for it. He's got his shirt on by the time he crouches in front of you, tracing a finger down to the bulge in your pants, and he sneaks an "I got into the cookie jar" smile at you, like what he's doing is cute. You're too distracted to see him stomp on your foot, which gets you shouting in pain, which lets him fit the gag in.

"You heard what I said - greatest fuck of your life." He taps you on the cheek with the back of his fingers, eating up the glare. "Don't worry. I'll come back. You have fun now, you crazy kid."

It isn't long before they're too busy moving the other stock to pay attention to you. People are shoved and smashed and terrified into line, and it's just you and Gabe now. The toy is big, so you can't really help it brushing your prostate, but sometimes you sit wrong and - well, you're glad nobody's around to hear you. You can sit on your knees, but they go numb. You can weirdly lay on your side, but that pushes up against Gabriel, and as much as you love him, you don't want all those bugs on you when you're shirtless and prone. It isn't long at all before you're on the edge, legs held open, eyes shut and mouth open and trembling all over, just - _just_ nearly there, and all you'd have to do is sit down, that's all you have to do.

It's a good ten minutes before you sit down and come hard enough to see stars, muffling the worst kind of heady moans into your gag, and he's watching this right now, you know he's watching. Probably jacking off and watching.

 _Remember, he's always against you._ Gabriel chides, trying to reassure you - god, you're so lucky to have him. Even as the pleasure rapidly turns to uncomfortable sensitivity, you can take comfort in his voice. You wonder why Vaas was kind enough to let him stay. _Remember you hate him._

And god, you do.


	10. Chapter 10

There are approximately ten bamboo sticks that make up the top of your cell. The walls are a little bigger, fifteen on one side and fourteen on the other. The floor has nine. Gabriel's been looking worse lately - his organs fell out not too long ago, which you felt bad about, and he lost all his bugs. He really seemed to like them. His eyes are nothing but a mass of wriggling worms, as is his lipless, hideously grinning mouth, but you're not going to tell him that and hurt his feelings. He wears a constant, thick black halo of flies. You get used to them.

The thing you're not counting is how many times you've come. There's a reliable arc: it hurts from the last orgasm, and over a short span of time, starts to feel pleasurable again. You count things while your next orgasm builds, or talk to Gabriel, or watch people go by. There's not a whole lot to do. You finally reach a point where it's bothering you, making you want to come, and you ride the heel of your foot until you do, just a stream of constant weak, dry orgasms. Your clothes are disgusting. It's been days since your last sip of water, and maybe _this_ is how you finally die. With a vibrator in your ass.

Write home, give mom the headstone inscription. _Died with a vibrator in his ass._

They don't pay attention when you start getting sluggish. When they tip your head and pour the water in and you kind of just slump there and take it, eyes unfocused. When you gradually slump until you've got your chin on your chest, eyes just slits. It's actually great, because you can't feel anything anymore - either the sickness is that bad or you've gone numb or someone turned off the vibrator, but either way, it's nice. You're running hot, but you're not really sweating. Sometimes Gabriel gets up and walks around talking to you, and although it's hard to move anything, you listen to his speeches with great interest.

 _You're dying,_ he tells you, hands folded behind his back, bent at the waist to look down on you. _Are you excited?_

"Yeah." Your lips barely move, but he can hear you clearly, you know. A beat. "Sorry it wasn't painful like yours."

 _Please. Sickness is the worst way to go. Besides crushing, I guess. Or being eaten alive by a tiger. Drowning is bad too._ A beat. He grins at you like he did when he still had lips. _Guess we both lucked out. Sort of._

"Sort of. You're the only one on this island I ever liked, Gabe."

_And I didn't even come from it. Suppose that's most of the reason why, isn't it? Nice spots, by the way._

He means the red rashes coming up blotchy on your chest and abdomen. They don't itch, at least. Don't hurt. Nothing about this death hurts, you're just - so tired. Hot and tired. The words come thick, tongue sluggish.

"Your fucking flies did this to me, Gabe."

_I know. Dehydrated and starving and sick - you'll be dead in no time. Really, you should be thanking me._

"They keep getting in my mouth."

 _Oh?_ A steady stream of flies pours from his open mouth. You should probably be alarmed by this. _Mine too!_

___

You've actually managed to contort yourself into a half-lying position when the commotion starts. It's great. Your shoulder is practically dislocated to pull it off, but it's great because you can lay your head in Gabriel's lap. The smell is unbearable but you have nothing in your stomach to vomit up, not even acid, and anyway, you get used to it after a while. You're not scared of him, he's your best friend. Like your cat when you were a kid, and it died too, got all maggoty and gross in the trash. This is a natural part of things.

Again, that commotion. It's interrupting your path to enlightenment over here. Your eyes don't want to work anymore but you can sure as shit hear it, someone's voice coming loud and cocksure until a certain point, where it stops cold. He's right there - you know this because you must have developed psychic powers, you're suddenly certain. In your delirium, it make sense.

"I said to take care of him."

"We did what you said." The pirate sounds shifty, nervous. "Enough water and food to keep him alive."

"Yeah? Is that why he's swimming in fucking corpse soup? You know, Rodriguez, I'm starting to think--" He clicks his syllables sharply. "--that you can't wipe your own ass without someone giving you directions." He tuts, strolling off. "Take care of it. Hose that shit off and put him in the shack."

They wait until his voice fades entirely, shuffling around. These guys, they don't like to handle you. You've been picking the dumber ones off ever since you got here. Maybe that's why they put it off until Vaas is gone, so he won't see the careful touching-a-spider way they handle you. Guy in front opens the cage. Guy behind gets to your cuffs.

Only, they're not really cuffed anymore. You broke your thumb to manage it, but there's nothing actually keeping you in check when they open the door, nothing to stop you from slinging a handful of rotted flesh and worms into the face of the guy in front - nothing to stop you from grabbing his knife and pulling the guy in back against the bars, shoving it into his chest a good two or three times. You're sick and delirious and crazy and you have a vibrator up your ass. Nothing can stop you now. Guy in front doesn't have a chance, and you put the knife through his throat before he can make a sound.

From there, the plan is simple. Insane, absolutely insane, but fairly simple. Drag the bodies off where people won't see them. Steal their clothes - mix and match so you get the less bloody ones. Take your knife and lop off all that too-long hair, which is soaked in various bodily fluids and decomposition-related things and has gotten noticeably smelly lately. (Also, Vaas likes to pull it. You hack it all off with vindication.) Wrap a bandana around the bottom half of your face, smearing mud across the partial letters beneath your eye. Stick a machete in your belt like you have no fucking clue what you're doing with it, which fits the M.O. of the brain surgeons around here. Ditch that fucking vibrator. Gabriel is right at your side, hiding behind one of the buildings with you.

_What's the plan?_

"Kill Vaas," you say, like this is somehow apparent.

_Well, how?_

"See that building? The big one at the center of camp."

_That's actually more to the northeast of camp, but sure._

"That's where he's at."

_Why not just go to his house and wait for him to go to sleep?_

Good question, isn't it? Why _don't_ you just do that? It's a sure thing. It's practical. It's smart. It's quick. Something in you is revolted at the thought, and you shake your head, wiping the bloody knife on the inside of your leg where no one will notice. "I can't."

 _You're insane,_ he tells you, and you let out a crazed titter. _Absolutely insane._

"I can't just slaughter him in his sleep. That's not - fair." You grip your knife tighter, babbling. "I need to see the light die in his eyes, Gabe. I have to. Or have him watch _me_ die. I need to. It's _important._ Important!"

 _Well, whatever._ Gabe shrugs. _I'm right behind you._

It's actually a little scary how easy it is to pass for a pirate, if only for the fact that they're all from everywhere across the globe and basically only interact with the people they know aren't axe murderers in their spare time, or alternately, are otherwise polite axe murderers. The requirements: be male, wear red, look crazy. The ones on guard are either high, tired, or busy with magazines, their AKs leaned haphazardly against things. The others are cooking, playing cards, playing rock-paper-scissors to try and get out of some bullshit task, or just generally dicking around.

Nobody knows you, so nobody does more than throw your crazy eye a quick look - someone thinks you can't hear him describe it as "Uncle Ruckus-y," but you do. Which isn't actually inaccurate. (This is why you usually keep that eye shut.) This camp? Not that bad, honestly. If you can ignore the whooping drunken pirates, a large number of which are dangerous criminals and psychopaths, and the oppressive jungle heat, and the gore-soaked little murder stage Vaas has set up, and the numerous guns that nobody is handling safely, and the faint smell of shit from the hole-in-the-ground latrines, and the crying of prisoners, and the way you can hear women beg _don't, please, don't_ in the distance.

"What a shithole," you say to no one in particular, and some guy toasts you in passing.

But it's your shithole. It's the shithole you've called home in one way or another for two years now, apparently, and the sounds and smells are more familiar than your first home, wherever in the world it is - it's so hard to remember the Before times these days, outside of brief snatches in your dreams. You look to the yawning jungle and feel like you're staring into the mouth of a tiger; the idea of that much freedom is terrifying, unnatural. Wrong. Skulking around the borders of the camp feels like walking the edge of a high-rise, so you drift into the general flow of foot traffic, picking up an unattended assault rifle to carry around like you have a job to do.

"Hey! Crazy-eye!" You turn around and lift your eyebrows at the man, said crazy eye kind of drifting off like it's trying to escape. It seems to unnerve people. "Get the fuck over here and help unload this shit."

You stay cool, shrugging and setting the gun aside. A little distraction won't hurt, really; Vaas isn't going anywhere. Heading over to the truck, "this shit" turns out to be a late shipment of captives - poor fuckers were drunk and boating the night away and wandered too close, probably. There are two men, one in his fifties and one looking some nebulous bit older, a lot of barely-legal babes, and a twelve year old kid who seems really, really out of place. They're all terrified. Some scream. Some cry. The kid is the most composed out of any of them, and you take an immediate liking to him for that.

Once they're all dragged out onto the dirt, their hands zip-tied behind their backs, you and three other guys start the long walk to get them to the cages. You have to get them through the body of the camp for that, driving them forward with threats and jabs from your guns when necessary. At the mouth to the cages, the men turn and refuse to move, the girls a little more amicable to being caged.

"What do you want - money? I can get you money," the fifty-something says, blubbering. (When did you start thinking of _crying in terror_ as _blubbering?_ ) When your group seems unmoved, he falls to his knees and grabs at your leg, smearing his face in your fatigues. You give him a sharp kick in the gut and wave the gun in his face.

"I don't have time for this shit, man. Get in the fucking cage."

"Please! I have a wife - a baby daughter--"

"Great! I'm sure they'll miss you very much." The words come too easily. "Now _get_ in the _fucking_ cage."

When he doesn't move, you drop a boot in his chest and push the muzzle into his cheek, and he finally goes into the cage, still sobbing. The other one is stock still, his face impassive as he stares at you. This guy has mischief written all over him, which is something you don't need at the moment. You toss the gun aside, getting surprised comments from the other pirates, and pull your knife. The blood on it is still drying. Intimidation factor. You don't need a scuffle with some pissant blowing your entire night.

"In the cage," you tell him calmly.

What happens next happens fast: one of the girls screams behind you, trying to pull the gun from a pirate. The pirate wins the struggle and hits her solidly with the butt of his rifle, a blow to the temple, and you wonder if she's dead. The guy you've just turned your attention from lunges for the knife, trying to pry it from your hand, mostly cutting himself up in the process. You find yourself slightly offended by this, and before you know it, your knife cuts a clean line through his throat.

It was you or him, you'd tell yourself, but the wrongness of it doesn't really hit home. He made a shitty decision. He's dead.

There's a lot of blood. The guys behind you groan, some with irritation, a couple with distaste. The girls are screaming. The grown man starts sobbing louder. The kid, surprisingly, is totally cool. God, the balls on this kid.

"What the fuck, man?" He nudges the body with his boot. "The boss is gonna fuck us for that! _Broken merchandise._ "

"Yeah, I'm sure Vaas would've gotten a lot of money off a geriatric on a shoot for _Girls Gone Wild._ " You turn back, knife sliding back in its sheath. "Now, if we're done here, I have to take a shit. We're done here, right?"

"Who's gonna clean this up?"

"Not my fucking problem," you drawl, already strolling off. No one tries to stop you. The pure ballsiness of your actions speaks loud enough. One of the bitch pirates still in the hazing period does end up having to drag the body away, and then they're just left there to cry. The woman has been tossed - unconscious or dead - into the cell. The kid has bright eyes, studying the way people move, what they do. You stroll to a nearby gathering and snatch a half-bottle of Wild Turkey from someone's side, taking a swig yourself before heading over to the cages, crouching down.

You must have blood on you. The kid is placid.

"Was that your dad?"

"No." He looks to the older man at his side, tied up. They didn't bother with the kid. "This is my uncle. That was his friend."

"What were you doing on a boat full of barely-legal bikini babes, kid?"

"It was supposed to make me a man."

You glance at his uncle, your expression pinching beneath the bandana. He looks away.

"Well, kiddo, sorry for interrupting your maiden voyage." You offer the bottle. "You still want to be a man?"

After a moment, he nods and accepts the bottle. You watch him take a swig and almost immediately recoil, hacking and gagging, and snicker meanly when he caps it. He squints at you for a long moment. It's long enough to make you uncomfortable.

"Why'd you do that?"

"What? Be nice to you?" You shrug. "No one was nice to me."

The man speaks up. "You've been here? How did you get out?"

"I never got out," you tell him, a little irritated that he interrupted your conversation. You pull your knife from its sheath and play with the hinge to their cage, hiding it all with your body as you slowly pry it looser. "But I like you, kid. I want to give you more of a chance than I had. See, I'm going to go up to that big building and kill as many people as I can. Which is probably a lot. When that happens, shit's going crazy. You kick this door open and make a break for it. And to even the odds--"

The kid's eyes are saucers when you hand him the pistol.

"Tuck it in the back of your pants. Like Scarface." He does so, pulling his shirt over it. "You play video games. You know how the safety works. If you run into anybody in red, kill 'em." You rap your knuckles on the cage, standing. "You had your first drink. Hope you're ready for first blood. Welcome to adulthood, kid."

"You were here," the kid says, stopping you mid-turn. "Like this. Like us. How did you get like this?"

He probably means your face, your eye, your... everything, but the question hits closer to home than you thought it would.

"Because the men on this island weren't nice to me." Your voice threatens to break on _nice,_ but you fight it back. "You stay around crazy people, you go crazy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to go really, really crazy on their asses." A beat. You point off into the distance. "Don't go that way. A fucked up guy with a tattoo on his chest lives that way. If you do see him, shoot him in the dick for me. He wears really tight pants, so it'll be easy. Happy hunting, kid."

Like he's accepted some kind of sacred mission, the kid nods seriously at you. You turn and swagger down the footpath, hands in your pockets, and wish him luck.

 _Why did you do that?_ Gabriel's at your side, of course. He's good company for the walk down to the armory, since you'll need a gun that isn't clunky horseshit. _Help them?_

"Help him," you clarify. "I dunno. Saw something in him I liked."

 _You wish you had his nerve._ He's right. Your hands are trembling even now, fear and anticipation fluttering in your chest. You're almost certainly not going to survive the night, and you know it. _Remember what you did when they first brought you here? You cried._

And sobbed, and begged. Imagine where you'd be now if he'd gone ahead and sold you. Would you be a hooker? A Hostel-type torture doll? Would you be cut up in pieces and sold to black market butcher shops? Or maybe some billionaire or prince somewhere would've taken you and kept you in luxury. (You suppose a king did technically take ownership of you, but fuck, there's no luxury to be found here.) Would you be free now? Would you still feel joy in cases other than when you're thinking about killing a man?

Would you be crazy?

You put the thoughts away, turning to Gabe. "And look at me now. If that kid sticks around this place, he's gonna be hell on wheels when he snaps, huh?"

_Who says he's going to snap? You came out of it perfectly sane._

"Aw, Gabe." People passing stare at you as you talk to the empty air at your side. "You're too sweet."

___

Of course, nothing will ever be easy for you. Your perfect plan starts with perfectly good murderous intentions and ends up causing a hurricane of fucking bullshit.

The armory is down past the makeshift stripper stage. They keep the whores down here, you suppose, and even now you can tell the new girls from the old ones. New ones with haunted looks and a shake to their hands. Old ones with scars and cold, calculating eyes. You even see a couple men way off to the side, one fey and pretty and the other classic swimsuit model handsome, both looking very tired. You feel a pang of solidarity with all of them so hard that your breath actually catches, but you haven't come this far to risk the whole scheme on saving someone else.

They have fucking dubstep pumping from a thrown together speaker system. It rattles your teeth as you pass by, making your way down to the heavily-guarded shack and the two guys at the door.

"Hey," you say to one of them, stopping at the point where they raise their guns at you. "They didn't give me a gun yet, and I'm sick of using whatever piece of shit is lying around. I want my own."

"Take it up with the boss."

"Like he gives two shits. Just let me pick something."

"Look, I get it, I really do." The guy holds up a hand. He doesn't sound all that sympathetic. "But I can't do it."

"Look at me. I don't have _shit._ " You really don't, now that you're down a pistol. "Just let me get a fucking pistol, guy. Shit, I'd take a pop-gun right now."

"Not even a fucking - alright. Get a pistol at least, Christ."

You slip inside with a wave and dig through the stock, slipping a gun in the back of your pants and another in the holster at your hip. Will you really need two guns? Should you take a bunch of knives? Does this actually work like The Expendables, or is it more like Saving Private Ryan? You settle on a nicer, bigger knife and the pistols, slipping out with a smile and a nod to the guards, and start heading back towards the main building. This has been fun and all, but enough dicking around.

Only, more dicking around happens, but it comes to find you. You're within sight of the building when somebody starts talking at you - when you ignore them, single-minded in your goal, someone shoves you so hard you nearly topple over.

"Are you fucking deaf?" Big guy. Pretty big guy. Pretty big pirate guy taller than you and built like a brick shithouse, and man, he does _not_ look happy to see you. You catch your balance and wheel on him, visibly offended.

"Uh." You raise your eyebrows, standing up straight. "Can I help you?"

"I d--" Your answer throws him off. The other guys are watching, vultures waiting eagerly for the first splatter of blood. " _Can I help you?_ Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"I think I'm busy. Whatever this is, can we wrap this up?"

Okay, so you're not expecting the punch. Maybe you should have. It thoroughly knocks your dick in the dirt, sending you wheeling to the ground. You don't know how long you're out - at least long enough to give him time to come stand over you. When he tries to step on you, you're quick to bodily shove his foot away and make him stumble back, letting you get to your feet again. He doesn't appreciate your totally rad skills, apparently, eyes darkening.

"Who do you think you _are?_ Walking around here like you own the fucking place?"

"This is a rhetorical question, right?"

You dodge the next grab, expecting it - he's a big guy, he has to telegraph his moves. Funny, but you seem to be pissing him off a little. He steps in quick, catches you by surprise, and snatches you up by your oversized tank.

" _Vaas_ owns the place. Then there's Carlos. Then you get me. I run what they don't give a shit about. If somebody beats the shit out of somebody, or steals, or fucks the prisoners without permission, that's what I deal with. I'm his _officer._ "

He sounds so proud of himself. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, head cocking.

"And--" He pauses dramatically, probably to give you a moment to look scared. You don't. "You've been causing shit. Killing prisoners. Giving orders. If this gets to Carlos - gets to Vaas - he's going to wonder what the fuck I'm doing, letting that shit go on."

"Oh, Vaas. Don't worry. I'm actually on my way to see Vaas." You sound so cheery, pulling your shirt from his hands, turning to go. "We're friends."

He grabs you by the back of the shirt because _of course he does._ You have just a second to process it before you've got a knife to your throat, your body crushed back against his. God, he's big.

"It's not going to get that far. The way I see it, Vaas never has to know about you _fucking up_ in his camp. Never happened. We just have to get rid of the evidence."

"Meaning you're going to kill me," you say, shifting slightly in his grip. The bandana hides his view.

"That's the idea, friend."

"Gonna cut my throat?"

He seems confused. Thinks this should be obvious. "Yes?"

"Ever done that before? Slit a throat? It's so _intimate,_ hermano." You mimic Vaas' lilt perfectly, and your words could easily be his. The knife presses harder, but it's unsteady. "I told you - we're friends. Really good friends. Closer than that, even."

"Whether or not you suck Vaas' cock isn't my concern. Nobody shits in this sandbox without being dealt with."

"Oh baby, keep _talking._ " You gesture down to the tent in your pants. Fucking knife to the throat - if you ever get around to murdering Buck, you'll have to thank him first. The guy freezes in surprise and you take your chance, pulling your knife to stab him in the side at the same time as he slashes your throat, and it hurts, and it's _euphoric,_ the idea that if you misjudged, you're going to die within the next minute. You press back, hand to your throat, but there's no gushing - your squirming means you'll have yet another scar, this one stretching from the underside of your chin to just above the curve of your jaw, but you're still alive.

It hurts, and it's bleeding... a lot, but you're cool enough to turn around and check the guy out. Knife in the kidney, yipes. He pulls it out and tosses it aside, and he's also bleeding... a lot. If you're the little tiger, this guy is a pit bull - hurting him doesn't slow him down, it just pisses him off. When you gurgle, gripping dramatically at your throat, working blood from your throat into your mouth so you can let it roll down your chin, you want him to think you're dying. You - dramatically - fall to your knees, head hanging, and watch as he picks up and starts walking over. Blood drips into the dirt, turning it a muddy red.

See, he's expecting you to fight like a person - like a civilized being with a stable mind, who would fight with their hands and kick, grapple him, _something._ What you actually do is unclear, it's kind of a blur after the fact, but you remember little things. Lunging forward to tackle him in the crotch. Your teeth in skin - you don't know where. (Hopefully not the crotch.) Your arms threatening to give out under the bite of a knife. Blood in your mouth. Someone is screaming, too, and where did his eye go?

When you come back to it, you don't actually know where the knife is. You're on your back, too, and he's on top, missing an eye and a chunk of his face, steady strangling you. (Where did his eye go?) You ache more than you did before, which means he got you a few times in the flurry. You're not entirely sure you'll be in any condition to fight Vaas after this bullshit - maybe you should go do meth. He's killing you. Do you want to die?

You wouldn't even have to do anything. Just let it happen.

 _No._ And you know where the fuck his eye is. You set it between your teeth and show it to him, and his grip loosens in horror. After you spit it into his face, you have that moment of horror to drive your forehead into his nose, pushing your whole weight into rolling him over. Grabbing him by the sides of the head and doing it again. Again.

More. You don't know how much, but your head hurts by the time you're done, pulling back to wipe blood out of your good eye. You stare at the ruins of his face for what feels like a while, reminded instantly of your mother's futile attempts at mashed potatoes with beets in them, turning them a mushy, fleshy pink-red. Now, the you that knows this island should be unflappable, should plainly accept this as necessary, but some little part of you screams _what the fuck did you just do?_ You've killed people, but never like this.

He deserved it. He pushed the confrontation. But you thought your first and last gruesome kill would be Vaas, and you would feel triumphant - not this. Not some random asshole with his skull half caved in. Even if he _deserved_ it.

 _Is that what you'll tell yourself at night?_ Gabriel leans in at your side. _It really isn't your fault, though. To beat Vaas, you'll have to be like him. You knew that going in. When you gaze into the abyss--"_

" _Shut the fuck up,_ Gabriel!" you scream at empty air, and if the pirates around you could be any more apprehensive, they are now. "I'm not - _like_ him. And what the fuck are all you looking at? Christ," you mutter, standing. "I need a bandage. Cloth. Whatever. Get it for me and you can be my best friend." 

Multiple people start moving. You get your gauze - surprisingly clean and new-looking - and give the guy a pat on the shoulder. His name is Marco. When you're sloppy about wrapping up your neck wound, he does it for you with practiced skill. He seems distracted, though. 

"Uh..." He points at your shoulder. 

"Oh," you say, noticing the knife jammed into your back. You must look like a stuck bull, carrying that thing around. "That's where that went. Can't see it. Is it deep?" 

"Looks like it." 

" _Fuck,_ fucking - dick." You scrub your eyes with the heels of your palms. "Fuck." 

You don't have long to breathe. As soon as you hear him - and oh, you hear him - you reach down, tying your bandana back on. If you've been recognized, no one's said anything. 

"What the _fuck?_ " Vaas screams somewhere behind you. "Is going _on?_ " Now he's addressing the crowd of onlookers. "You think this is a fucking sewing circle? Get the fuck on and do your fucking jobs!" 

The pirates scatter, and gradually, it becomes just you, Vaas, and a few lucky pirates stationed nearby. And Marco, apparently, now standing somewhat behind you as you turn to face Vaas. 

"Not you," he says, pointing to you. Not that you're really going anywhere fast in your condition. Marco breaks in. 

"Andre started--" 

"Did I fucking ask you what happened? No?" God, he's high. Meth, and he must have been up for two days at this point, his eyes glassy. He pulls his gun, gesturing idly with it. "Pop quiz: did I _ask you?_ " 

Marco's about to say something, but you see the shitstorm coming before it even gets there. You hold up a hand, signaling for him to stop talking, and glance back. 

"Get out of here. Keep your head down." 

He practically disappears. Vaas' expression is twisted with something besides anger now, probably because you just gave orders to one of _his_ guys - he shoots at Marco's feet while he runs, too, maybe expecting a reaction. You just try and breathe, leaning down on your knees. Sort of. You bend over to a point and feel the knife, which means you can only hunch over weirdly. You reach back to finger it for the second, third time - it's not big, but it's down to the hilt. Jesus. It'll have to come out soon, but shit, touching it sends horrific pain shooting down your arm. 

"You - badass." You grin behind the bandana. You've been _badass_ twice now. He walks over, gesturing to the body like you're a naughty dog who got in the garbage again. "What the fuck is this?" 

"He wanted to kill me." You shrug. "So I killed him first." 

"No. No no no no no _no._ " He dips close to the body like the flies are already starting to, gesturing at the mess of a face. "What's _this?_ " 

"I don't know what you mean." 

"You had a knife _right there._ " He gestures to the one on the ground - probably yours, discarded. "You had your hands. You had your feet. You had _pleeenty_ of options, and you pick the one where you bash someone's fucking brains out with your face. So what's that, hermano? What's that?" 

"I still don't know what you mean, sir." 

"I _mean--_ " He stands, stepping over the body. There's maybe ten, fifteen feet between you now - he taps his temple with his gun. "--you're fucking messed up in the head, man. From what I hear, you _ate_ him. Spat his own fucking eye in his face." 

"I'm a very aggressive fighter, sir," you drawl, and he giggles. The adrenaline is starting to drop, which means the pain is getting more and more noticeable. You hadn't noticed that gash in your forearm either. "Is this the part where you offer me his job?" 

"You think this is Highlander? Shit doesn't work that way, amigo." Closer. He doesn't walk - he _prowls._ "I hear that you, my friend, are a bad, bad little shit. Killing the merchandise. Giving orders like you fucking think you're somebody. _Killing_ my officers." A quirk in his face, in his tone, in his eyes. A flash of interest. "Telling people we're friends. Are you my friend, amigo?" 

"You don't remember me?" You feign hurt. "We were _tight,_ Vaas." 

"We were, huh? What's your name?" 

"Guess." 

"Mm... no." He's standing in front of you now, too focused on scaring you to notice your posture shifting faintly. In fact, he's busy pressing his gun to the underside of your chin. "I don't think we were." 

But you're holding his eyes, he's almost worked it out - maybe it's the way you smell, or the way you stand, or just how fucking balls-out crazy you are, but either way, he's catching on. Your voice is low. 

"Are you sure?" 

He's sure. You see it in his eyes, the moment he recognizes you, that fucking delicious look of slack-jawed surprise that comes in the instant before you stab him. And you do. You stab him, not nick him, not slice him, not cut him - you hit his lower right side, digging the knife in right to the hilt, and in his helpless moment of shock you wrap your arm around his neck and drag him close, your bandana falling loose around your neck as you kiss him. This is it. This is the moment you've been dreaming about, this right here, this exact satisfying second.

It's beautiful.

Then time starts to move again. Vaas snarls against your mouth and shoves you away, looking down at the knife you've stuck in him. You don't mind. You're elated. You caught some organ, probably his intestines, and killed him - he just doesn't know it yet. All that talk in his shack about _breaking you,_ and here you are, the one with the knife in the shoulder instead of the gut. You reach back and rip it out, amazed at just how painful that is. How it throbs in time with everything else wrong with you, and how tired you are, and how tempting it would be to pass out. But you've still got work to do.

Vaas is smart enough not to take the knife out, but he's swearing and snarling and turning his wild eyes on you. He dropped his gun, and now you have it in your mouth, daring him - _asking_ him - to pull the trigger on you. You see his eyes slant with recognition. The way he readjusts the gun to a better angle. The twitch of his finger on the trigger. This is it. This is _it._

He pulls it out and whips you with it instead, and it's just enough to sap the rest of your strength. You crumple against him, cheek pressed to his chest, then his boot. There's yelling, movement all around.

 _It's going to get worse,_ Gabriel says, and you know it's true. It's the last thing that crosses your mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Man, do you guys have any idea how awesome you are? negl, all the awesome comments are the reason this thing is still going strong, the stuff you guys send me always motivates the crap out of me. :') idk how many chapters we have left, but I'll try to make them totally rock.
> 
> 2: If you guys want to hear some of the stuff I listen to while I write this story, check it ouuuut
> 
> http://8tracks.com/nunsploitation/shrugs-aggressively

"Please." Your voice shakes - whether from exhaustion, pain, or fear, you can't really tell. "Please. Please don't."

"What's the matter, hermano? You don't want to see him again?" He's got his arm around your shoulders, sunglasses on, nursing a cigar. When he points the body out, he hunches you dangerously close to the edge of the pit, forcing you to hold onto him. "Look. He's right there."

He is. You can see him floating near the top, Gabe, in a sea of corpses of various states of decomposition - you'd never seen the hole they toss the bodies into, and now Vaas is holding you at the very last few inches of it, threatening to send you down. He has to hold you up just to keep you from hurtling in by accident. It's been - so long, and you're so tired. You'd thought you knew exhaustion before now, but you were wrong.

" _Please, no more tortures._ " Vaas croons in your ear, a high-pitched mockery of you. " _Please, anything else._ This is something else, and you don't fucking want that either? Huh? Picky motherfucker."

What are your options? _Take me back to the tortures,_ but you can't bear another windowless evening with him and his tools, destroying your sense of time, a painful eternal twilight. _Throw me in,_ but your hands are tied behind your back, and you'll drown in a sea of bodies. All the people you outlived. Every single lost soul that had the poor luck to wander their way to this island. The bodies you've added yourself. You suppose there's a poetic justice in the fact that you'd die in a sea of rot or sink until hundreds of pounds of dead flesh suffocate you.

It's been so long. You're so tired.

Vaas has to snatch you back when your knees give. The guys he brought with him are back with the jeep out past the treeline - it's just the two of you here, giving him the room to crouch down and wrapping his arms around you, just under your armpits. Your legs he lets dangle over the edge of the pit. The right one is essentially useless anyway. He went Misery on your kneecap a while back, and while you can still walk, Christ, it hurts. You get so tired so fast, too. _You don't need that shit to walk,_ he'd told you, sledgehammer hiked over his shoulder. _Sit still, hermano. You don't want me to miss._

He'd been furious after you stabbed him. Made him look like a dumbshit in front of all his men. It took weeks of blood and misery to satisfy him. Now he's in as good a mood as he ever is, cheek-to-cheek with you, crouched down and wrapped affectionately around your ruined body.

"You still with me?" He taps you lightly on the cheek. You were actually fading out for a second there. "Hermano? Hey, you fuck. Get up."

He presses into one of your newer wounds - _go get him, boy_ as you sprinted across the beach, the dog at your heels, and felt it sink its teeth in your arm - and your eye flutters open. (The other one is covered in a patch now. He'd gotten sick of staring at the empty socket after he cut the bad one out.) You stare at the sky with incomprehension, not understanding, for a second, where you are or what you're doing. Vaas is here. That means tortures. Are you being tortured?

"Quit that falling asleep shit." He gives you a few slaps on the cheek to rouse you. "That shit scares the fuck out of me, amigo. I had a friend who kept pulling that shit once."

You're so broken down, physically and mentally, that you're nearing the point of not being _able_ to go on.

"How do you want to die?" Vaas purrs, turning your chin up so you can see into the pit. "Easy question. Open book. _How do you want to die?_ "

___

The night before - day before, week before, morning before, evening before, what the fuck _ever_ \- you know he's getting tired of you. Tired of this torture routine, now that you've reached the point of inactivity. No more screaming abuse at him when he comes, no more hysterical crying, no more bloodcurdling howls of pain. Even when blindfolds you, ties you up, and fucks you all day long, hard and raw and to the point where he doesn't even enjoy it, you make little noise, hardly move.

When Vaas comes down and simply sits with you, you know it's coming.

"You awake?" He snaps his fingers in your face, and you glance over at him, curled into an immobile pile on the concrete floor. It might not have been so awful if you could stay awake when he wasn't there, but you've reached the point where your body can't handle alertness unless someone is literally torturing you to keep you awake.

It's been so long, and you're so, so tired.

"C'mere." You aren't given an option - he hooks you by the arm and roughly drags you until you're draped across his lap, and then he starts to pet you slowly and rhythmically, as if he were deep in thought. "You lasted a long time, you know that? Fucking - _years._ With me. My little _tigre._ My crazy little shit."

He traces the roughly hearing wounds from the handheld circular saw, bringing back memories of being blindfolded and listening to the whine of the motor dipping just a little too close.

"I don't have a lot of friends." He sounds sober right now, but he has to be on something to be saying this shit to you. Maybe it's because you're practically dead. Like talking to a cat. "Shit, were we even friends? I don't fucking know. I got used to you."

You stay quiet. He doesn't seem to expect a thrilling dialogue or anything.

"I'm gonna miss you. Nobody else that fucks up and comes here is gonna be like you. Gonna miss fucking you." Vaas dips in now, speaking in your ear. "Miss that fucking way you look at me. Like you _hate_ me. Look at me like you hate me, querido."

You haven't moved. Vaas sighs bodily, poking you between your eyebrows.

"You put up a good fight though. That's why I'm gonna be nice to you." He pulls his tank off, spreading it across the floor like a blanket. "Like a, uh - like a _going away present,_ yeah? Goodbye, little _tigre._ "

When he hauls you up, you're not expecting him to kiss you. When he kisses you, you're not expecting it to be gentle. He knows how to be gentle, but it's usually just a lead-in for... well, _Vaasness._ It stays that way though - nipping at your lip, kissing around your mouth so you have to chase him, groaning into it, pleased. You _were_ going to be totally unresponsive, but the son of a bitch gets to you like he always does, laying you down onto his shirt. You haven't had clothes in... a while, so your bare chests press together when he chases the kiss, and this is hilarious on a cosmic scale, this is _sick._ You're the modern Job, but God is nowhere in sight. You just have the devil in your court.

"I think I love you," you tell him, and he freezes. You can't see his face when he's got you cheek to cheek like this, but you can only imagine how often he's heard those words in his life. "Can't stop thinking about you."

"Yeah?" His voice is unreadable. He isn't pulling back. "No shit, huh?"

"Sounds nice, huh? I want - _want_ \- to kill you." You giggle in your throat. "And eat you. Make us the same person, make me part of you, make you part of me. If I wasn't so set on dying after you do, I'd want to keep your skin. Maybe wear it around. This is some fucking serial killer shit and it's your fault. I used to be such a nice person, too."

He laughs as he pulls back, but his smile is subtle, calculating. At first, you thought he was a rabid dog - stupid, dull, attracted by light and movement and noise. Now you know he's more like a wild dog, the kind that make packs outside of humanity and live their whole lives on their own mettle, killing and eating anything smaller or weaker than them. The clever ones. The dangerous ones. He looks distinctly wolfish when he smiles.

"That's pretty fucking sexy, hermano." You think he's coming in for another kiss, but he just licks a stripe over your open mouth instead, dog-like, and murmurs against the corner of your lips. "Nobody's ever made me pop a boner that fast, fuck."

"Yeah?" You snort. "Because of the eating thing, or the skin thing, or because you did it to me?"

"No, no - no. That was always inside you." He leans back, pressing a fingertip hard over your heart. "How come you never tell me about this before? Your fucking - _ardent passions._ "

"Didn't want to put you off or anything," you say, and you both share this quiet, mutual smile. It's impossible to describe, but feels a little like - understanding, maybe. Not of each other, you'll never really understand him, but it's almost a sort of friendliness you two share over similar situations. Understanding what it's like. Accepting it for what it is. Some people might call this sort of clarity and self-acceptance enlightenment. Your eyes feel as wild as his, pupils gone to pinpricks. He bares his teeth in an undeniably fond way.

"You couldn't put me off if you fucking tried."

He tried kissing you gentle, but you made it hard. Now you make it hard again. You're _technically_ kissing, anyway, because your mouth and his mouth connect sometimes, but you connect with anything you can - biting lips, biting tongue, biting... other areas of the face. Anything you can reach. When you both pull back, breathless, you're the one that speaks first.

"Is this fighting or fucking?"

"Or?" He's dark-eyed, and his grin is a wild thing that should scare you. "Who says we need _or?_ "

You love him. In the most terrible, mutually destructive way, you love him - how's that poem go? _I love you like a knife loves a back?_ It's different for you two, though. You love him like that wet gristle crunch of teeth - not necessarily an animal's - locking on a throat, or the wide-eyed terror of being discovered by someone you've been hiding from, or sex that makes you cry all night for how good it is and how you want _more._ Your relationship is a scorched earth policy.

When he pops two fingers into his mouth and presses them into you, it doesn't hurt. It's not _comfortable,_ sure, but it's not horrifically painful either. He's face-to-face with you, grinning, pressing in to the knuckle. "Remember when this was tight? When I had to lube you up, get you wet like a bitch? Now you take it so good for me, baby. So good."

You bite back a groan. He notices.

"You like this? I tell you nice things, you say, 'fuck off'. Oh, pretty little face. Pretty little mouth. Pretty little ass. Fuck off, Vaas." He snorts, twists his fingers. You bite back a noise. "I say fucked up shit and you pop a fucking boner. That's why you never wanted to get it up for me, huh? I was being too nice. You like it when I treat you bad."

You try to answer, but he interrupts you with a low _shhhhh-shh-shh._ He grinds down against you, grinning, and he's hard.

" _Slut._ "

"Just do it," you snarl, and he gives you a slap on the inside of the thigh just for good measure, fingering old Buck scars. For all the awful shit Vaas has done to you, he could've done worse. Could've torn your other eye out, or pulled all your teeth, or ripped your tongue out, or cut your dick off - instead, he just put you through a whole _lot_ of fucking pain. You've been dripped with acid, been splashed with boiling water, had been force-fed rotten meat until you vomited, then were forced to eat more of it. (Live cockroaches, the ones that hiss at you. Something that burned your mouth and smelled like piss. You've been made to eat so much disgusting shit.) None of that managed to kill you.

He produces a little lube packet, dangling it in your face.

" _For your comfort._ Cuz I'm nice like that." You watch him tear down his pants and get himself slick, and then he hikes you up by your legs - it makes you choke on a pained groan, which he ignores - and seat himself in one easy slide. You're not even entirely hard yet, but he dips in close, holding a thigh up for leverage, and sinks his teeth into your throat as he strokes your cock. It doesn't even feel entirely good, and still, the sound you make is nearly supersonic.

"Doesn't matter how bad I fuck you up, huh? Doesn't matter." He pushes your leg out of the way, letting it join the other that you've wrapped around his waist, licking at the bite, pressing you together at all points of contact. "You'll still open your legs for me. They got a term for that, hermano. I think it's _bitch._ "

"How about we play the quiet game?" you snap back, feeling him move. "Let's start righ--"

 _Righaaaaafuck,_ and he snickers, watching you chew off the moan.

"I'm not a, uh, fucking _expert_ or anything, but I don't think you're being very quiet, hermano." He slams his hips again, and you chew at your lip. "But sure, shit. Let's play a _game._ You get through this without making too much noise, I'll get you a fucking steak, how's that? Loverboy gets a good last supper."

You don't respond, but you do nod, feeling him shift his grip on your hips. He's always rough as fuck, you can focus on the pain. This time, though - even if you've roused enough to snap and snarl at him, he treats your wrecked body like china, laying you out on his shirt and starting up something slow. Lazy rolls of his hips. Fingers tracing all your scars, slipping featherlight over your skin, rolling a warm circle in your hip with his thumb - it's not right. It's not the usual. No amount of squirming will get him going faster, although he does go harder, slow sweet fucking that you feel down to your toes.

"Fucker," you spit, and he barks laughter.

"Said I was being _nice_ for you, hermano." He spreads a palm over your lower stomach. "And this is how you like it. Last fuck of your life. Might as well be the _best_ fuck of your life, right?"

It's impossible to stay quiet, and he knows it. You bring your hands over your face.

"I'll break 'em," he says, tapping at your wrist. "They touch your fucking face again, I'll break them. You can't hide from me."

And he's not going to snap first. It stays slow, even if he starts angling his hips different, swirling his thumb around the head of your dick. You try and hold out, stay quiet. You really do. When he stops, you reach down and grab his wrist, breathless.

"No no - please." You hate yourself. "Please. Harder."

"Harder what?" He cups a hand at his ear, playing dumb. "That shit needs a subject and a verb, motherfucker."

"What the fuck do you want from me? _Fuck me harder?_ Maybe _gimme dick harder? ___" You're getting mildly hysterical, hips pinned tight against his. "Maybe quit fucking around and do this--"

Harder. The wide-eyed moan you let out is humiliatingly loud, and he keeps up the pace, hand flattened over your stomach to feel your muscles tense on every thrust.

"Ohhh. That kind of harder, huh? Yeah. Yeah, I can do that." He slaps you playfully on the cheek - his definition of 'playful' could use some work. "Shit, hermano. That's all you had to say. Next time, just say, _Vaas, fuck me harder._ "

He dips forward, grinning. You feel him at your throat, at your chest, lower.

" _Vaas, Vaas, I was wrong. I want to stay here forever._ " His filthy nails dig into one of your bites. " _Vaas, please fuck me all day. All night. Vaas, I love your fucking dick. I want to marry it._ "

You manage a snort, to which he just starts jerking you off again, rolling his callused thumb at that spot just under the head that makes you keen. He could've been bad at sex, but _noooo--_

" _Vaas,_ " he purrs, leaning down low, pressing you together. You can't fuck in this position, but he can rock down deep. " _Let me be your dog, Vaas._ Fuck, man, did your fucking dick just twitch? You like that idea?"

You don't deign to answer. He keeps going, obviously entertained.

"If I wasn't going to kill you, you could go from my little _tigre_ to my little _perrito,_ huh? My doggie." He pets your cheek, canting his hips in a way that makes you suck in a strangled breath. "My cute little doggie. You know what doggies do, hermano?" He shows teeth. "They _bark._ "

He barely even has to speed up. It's all in the angle, the way he holds your body, and within the next minute or so, you can't even muffle your moaning through your teeth. You can't claw at his back - no fingernails - and can barely move at all, caging you in a body that doesn't belong to you anymore, and probably never did. This is Vaas' body, torn up and broken and so completely, terribly _his,_ and you just sort of came along for the ride.

"That's it, yeah - make some noise." He's got a good clip now - nowhere near pounding, but steady and hard, and you're losing your goddamn mind. It's never lasted this long - never stayed the way you like - never fully brought you in mentally, where you're hyperaware of everything around you, where you look up at Vaas and think _he is so fucking handsome,_ where you skim over his fine muscles and the sweat he's broken out into, over his scars, up to his - eyes, savage green whenever he glances up to gauge your reaction, which seems to be fairly often. Was he your type before you came here, or did you just break down for him?

You kiss him, and it's not - rough. You can't wrap your arms around his neck when you can barely hold them up at all, but you cover the back of his hand with your palm and urge him on, letting him pin your head to the floor. For a second, you can see how someone might learn to love this - not really the captivity, sure, but extremely satisfying sex with an attractive man? Food and water catered to you? No bills, no Christmases, no deciphering passive-aggression from your friends, no telling a therapist about your boring problems and paying two hundred bucks an hour for reassurance. You should be sickened that it sounds so attractive.

Someone might learn to love this. But not you. Remember, you hate him.

It's your turn to kiss like a lover, drawing him in until he isn't even fucking anymore. Every fiber of him is in this kiss, slow and hot and _hungry,_ and it makes him groan harder than he ever did when he fucked you. This is a goodbye kiss, you understand. It breaks off with both your breaths trembling, lips grazing, eyes heavy-lidded. You let your head fall back, and he buries his face in your neck, kicking up the pace again as you both move on.

Remember, you _hate_ him.

When you come - and he makes sure you do - it's this slow-building thing you've been dealing with for fuck knows how long. This isn't hard and fast, and neither is your orgasm. It builds up slow no matter how hard you will it, less like a bolt of lightning and more like a volcano, which means you end up trapped in that awful _oh fuck oh god please fuck_ phase for longer than usual. He's in your ear the whole time, feeding you things to say for him, and you do. Christ, you do. You're on the edge for an unreasonable amount of time, and when he thinks you're close, he _stops._ Lets the pull fall back no matter how thoroughly you cuss him out for it.

" _Not yet,_ " Vaas says in your ear, voice husky, and pulls out. You're ready to scream at him when he walks over to the wall and sits down, gesturing you over. "How bad you want it, amigo?"

It means you have to pick yourself up, which is painful enough, and crawl over to him. Also painful. When you reach him, he takes you by the throat and steers your head up, his smile genuine.

"You're a shithead as a human, but you make a pretty fucking good dog."

In his lap, he does most of the work for you. You throw your head back when he sit you down, because _fuck_ this is a new angle, and he guides your arms around his neck. Like this, he can fuck with you in more than the usual way - sucks marks in your neck, chews at your shoulders, sit at an angle so you can't help grinding your cock against his stomach, _fuck._ He fucks hard and steady again, _deep,_ and shit, maybe he did this because he wants you to come like you do, voiceless, shaking, clutching at him like a buoy at sea. He stills after, then moves to push you off.

"You didn't come," you point out.

"This was being nice." Again, he tries to get you off of him. You lock your thighs and bite at the shell of his ear, earning a full-body shiver. You sound tired, but there's no argument in your tone.

"Then come."

He doesn't have to be told twice. _Now_ the pace is hard and brutal, makes you tense from the oversensitivity, but he wasn't too long out anyway - you get to watch him come up close, body snapping rigid, head grinding back against the wall, a choked-off _fuck,_ his grip bruising. When he's riding it out, he presses his face into your shoulder and whines in his throat. You let him take as long as he needs.

It's a while before either of you speak. You're draped around him like a shawl, head on his shoulder, his chin on yours.

"You're going to kill me?"

"Yeah." He sounds satisfyingly out of breath. "Yeah. You're worn out. Fucked up. You're taking up fucking space."

"Alright," you say, leaning your head against his. It's not what he wants to hear. He wants to hear you beg, and cry, and show a flare of life you just don't have anymore.

"Yeah," Vaas says. You're not sure what he means by it.

The next day he covered you in centipedes. Fucking _Vaas._

___

"How do you want to die?"

How _do_ you want to die? The pit is right there, yawning. You could probably talk him into strangling you, shooting you. He's just showing you this to let you see where you're going to go when he's done with you. It's funny - you've imagined your own death so much, so intensively, and now that you're at its doorstep, your mind completely blanks. How do you want to die?

"Strangling." you say. Vaas' breath is on your neck. "I want you to do it. You have to. You _deserve_ to."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. Don't wet your fucking panties, I'll do it." He scoots you back from the pit, turns you around, lays you out, and sits on you. You feel his hands on your throat next, just rubbing at your windpipe before they slowly, surely cut off your breathing. He's good at this, has the form down and everything. The pressure builds in your face right away.

"So sad." Vaas smiles down on you, grip tightening. "I'm really gonna miss you, you little fuck. _Parting is such sweet sorrow._ " Tighter. "Or some bullshit like that."

You have two minutes before unconsciousness sets in, maybe. Maybe that'll be long enough. You smile back at him, mouthing his name, and he can't help dipping his head to brush his lips across yours. Is it enough of an opening?

It has to be. With a monumental effort, you hook your feet in his gut and toss him over your head, into the pit - he nearly takes you down with him, but as you suck in a violent, clean breath, you catch yourself and get to watch his dumbfounded fucking look as he falls. His _stupid fucking face_ as you choke and wheeze and grin viciously, looking down the edge of the pit to see him go. There's a splash - so there _is_ water down there, somewhere.

"Eat _shit!_ Fuck yeah!" You push away from the edge of the pit, dragging your zip-tied hands under your ass and over your feet, getting them in front of you. When you struggle to your feet, you can't see him in the pit. He can probably hear you, though. "Fuck! _Yeah!_ Fuck, I fucking - you can eat the shit out of my fucking ass, Montenegro! _Yeah!_ "

How do you want to die? _You don't._

"Your ass is mine, you fuck! This is some Tom and Jerry shit now, motherfucker!" Yeah, it's not actually that great an idea to spend all this time screaming at him while he gets out of that hole, but after those weeks of pain and misery, you think you're entitled to a little strutting. "You hear me? Vaas!"

You're expecting an answer. Shouting, motion, anything to let you know he's still alive down there. Even when you sit at the mouth of the pit to wait, using a rock to wear your zip-tie into snapping, you're sure he'll come. You wait for him.

When it gets dark, you think that maybe he isn't coming back. For some reason, the idea hits you with a chill.

 _Well, he's probably dead._ Gabe leans dangerously far over the edge, arms folded. _What now? Going in after him?_

"He's not dead," you say, staring down. The light is failing. It's getting harder and harder to see into the pit. "It's not going to end that easily."

_Who are you trying to convince? Yourself, or me?_

"You can eat shit too, Gabe." You stand, using what's left of daylight to find your way back to the jeep. Both men seem perplexed when you come back, not Vaas, but you're very, very tired. An explanation seems too much. "Get me back to camp."

"Where's Vaas?"

"Dead." You flash a smile, hands spread to show off the broken tie.

"That's bullshit." He doesn't sound so sure. "That's _bullshit._ "

"If he were still alive, do you really think it would've taken this long for him to kick me into a pit?" You sniff, heading for the jeep. "Now take me back to camp."

One of the men stops you, pulling a pistol to aim at your face. Maybe it's your total lack of reaction that unnerves him. Maybe it's the little laugh that doesn't reach your eyes. When you speak, the hoarseness of your voice makes it sound like a purr.

"Do you _really_ think that's going to stop me?" A chuckle. "After all of _this?_ Do you really - really - _really--_ "

You step in, steering the gun to press against your forehead.

"-- _ **really**_ think this can stop me?"

His hand is shaking. You're pressing forward, backing him up against the jeep, and things are moving so slowly. The muscles in his arm are tightening, moving under the skin as he starts to pull the trigger. Vaas is dead. (Maybe.) Isn't now the perfect time to die? Shut your eyes. Let it happen.

Click.

 _Not yet,_ the world is telling you. You use that stunned moment after the misfire to grab him by the wrist and shove the gun against his head, your finger curling over his to pull the trigger. He's dead after the first shot, fingers slipping loose to let you take the gun, but you watch him slump to the ground before setting a foot on him and shooting three more times, just to be sure. You lift the gun to the other pirate, entirely aware of how you must look. There's bloodspray across your face, and your expression hasn't changed.

"Back to camp."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YO HEY GUYS, new chapter! I've been up to my eyeballs working with my publisher on original stuff (check out Devil's Slave by Lola Hale if you're interested), but let's pick this thing back up.

"He's not dead," you say, throwing an idle glance over Hoyt Volker's shoulder. For a moment, no one in the room seems to have a reply to that.

A week. Vaas Montenegro has been missing for one week, three days, and fifteen hours - you'd still remember the minutes if that asshole Todd hadn't distracted you while you were tallying it all up. You've kept a silent vigil the entire time, because he's not dead, and he's coming to kill you. Try to kill you. Maybe he'll pull it off, or maybe you'll kill each other in the process, or maybe someone in the camp will finally realize that your feud makes for a fine opportunity to off both of you and take control. Doesn't matter, really, and you show that to the entire camp by sitting on the roof of one of the little guard towers they have set up to watch for jaguars (Rook's prime _break into your house, kill you in your sleep_ nuisance animal) and keeping your own little drug-hazy vigil with Gabe. People don't seem to pay him much attention for some weird reason. They just look at you as they pass beneath, expressions ranging from disgust to trepidation to the occasional flash or two of pity.

But it's fine. They don't understand. They don't exist on the same level that you and Vaas do, so how could they?

But sometimes you come down to sleep in an actual bed, and of course, that's when you hear the door one evening - it's horrible and humid, air thick with the stink of dirt and rotting vegetation that always seems to hang around in the rainy months, but you practically fly out of bed at the first tap of knuckles on your door, not bothering to call out. After a moment - it takes you a little while longer to get on your feet and moving ever since Vaas left you lame - the knocking repeats, but louder, harder, and your heart flutters. No one comes to your door, but even if they did, they wouldn't knock with this kind of surety. This confidence.

_Why would Vaas bother with the door,_ Gabe whispers in your ear, but you hardly hear him. The words don't register until you have the door swung open and stare right into Buck's face, flatly uncomprehending.

"Morning, sunshine. I--"

You promptly slam the door on him and tip over the nearby gun cabinet - you've since moved into Vaas' place while you wait, take care of it for him and all - to block the door. But to your surprise, there's no attempt to get inside. Just laughter, low and mild.

"Well that's a fine fucking how-d'you-do."

"What do you want?" You track his footsteps to the nearby window, and meet him there with an assault rifle trained right in the middle of that stupid stag tattoo of his. Funny, but he looks mildly surprised by your gall. "No solicitors, fuckface. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying."

"You've gotten funnier since I last saw you. Better conversational skills. Last time we spent time together, it was just _hrmmmmmph god please no_ this and _Buck sir stop wahhhh_ that." He winks. You tense your jaw. "Oh, don't give me that pissy little look. We're just funning around, eh?"

You cock the gun. He actually seems to sober up a little, eyes like blades as he looks you over.

"Your little ass-kissers here tell me Vaas is dead." A tilt of his head. "Say you killed him. Threw him in a bloody corpse pit. Hell of a way to go out."

"He's not dead," you reply, and Buck nods thoughtfully.

"Don't think he is either, honestly. He's a resourceful fuck, I'll give him that. Death by hole? Nah. With those types it's either OD or bullet to the brain. But the point is, he's currently indisposed."

"And you came to tell me this because...?"

You're both quiet for a moment, sizing one another up. Doesn't matter how long it's been, or how crazy you've gotten - Buck still puts you in that prey frame of mind, and he looks you over with a hunter's keen eye, sizing up how best to approach you. You're scared and unhinged, he knows that. Knows that if he puts his hand too close, you might snap at it. It's a little terrifying that you pick all of this out from a few moments of quiet. But just as soon as he tips his head and smiles, you know you're right.

"Because Vaas served a purpose on this island - little cog in the machine, yeah?" He makes a spinning motion with his finger. "And now we're missing our cog. You didn't think an animal like Vaas actually owned shit-all, did you?"

"Not really. He wasn't smart enough to run it all himself." That gets Buck laughing. "And neither are you."

Buck stops laughing. He's wearing a little sneer when you go on, and somehow, the fact that he's in a slightly worse mood makes this easier for you.

"Your boss is pissed that I killed him."

"Bleedin' so. The whole damn island's gone topsy-turvy without Vaas to run the ground level."

"But if he wanted me dead for it," you continue, but he tries to finish for you.

"--you'd already be--"

"--busy making myself a Buck skin rug," you cut in, letting the gun drop away entirely. "You wouldn't be fucking around talking to me - not like this. I might already have a knife in me."

"Might have _something_ in you." He's smiling again, not put off as your nose pinches in mild displeasure. "Alright, brass tacks: you killed Vaas. _Maybe._ Far as my employer sees it, that either makes you a replacement or a head to nail on his wall. He wants to meet you to decide which."

"And this is one of those... _offer you can't refuse_ things." It's not even a question. You're tipping the gun cabinet back into place, although you make sure Buck can see the wicked knife strapped to your thigh when you go out to meet him. When he tries to move in a little too close, you set your hand on that hip and watch him stop.

"Fraid so."

There's a click right in your ear. You sigh, unable to muster the proper surprise at having a man in yellow armor pressing his gun to your temple. For a moment, it's quiet. They're watching you, seeing how you respond. No matter how often Buck deals in wild animals, he'll never quite be entirely sure about you. You're the _tigre,_ after all. In the end, you only really have the one question.

"Do I at least get to ride in the helicopter?"

___

The commandos in yellow are in stark contrast to the pirates. They're too quiet.

It's later that day before you meet Hoyt Volker, because - as Buck reminds you - the man is busy, _so do us all a favor and don't waste his fucking time, yeah?_ You sit in a room with concrete walls and two guards by the door holding automatic weapons, eying you like you might have rabies. Idly, you wonder how many people here have been informed of your history on this island. It's hard to tell whether it's that recognition or horror at your appearance in their eyes as they pass (and you pass more than a few staring pairs of them), although it doesn't matter in the end. Not really. You are what Vaas has made you - to most people, that means you're a nightmare. To some, you're impressive.

To another group, it makes you useful. Guards let you into Hoyt Volker's office, where the man waves them off as he chatters on the phone, obviously agitated. You take the unsaid instruction to sit down and wait quietly while he snarls at some grunt of his for failing to pick up Vaas' slack, for nearly letting some boaters turn tail and escape the island - Hoyt bemoans the fact that he had to have them gunned down and lost _good money in product_ because of the man's _fucking incompetence_ while you sit there and eat his mints. The bowl is nearly full when you start, half empty by the time he ends the call and looks at you like he doesn't quite know what to do with you. You're weird, dangerous. Completely untested. You have no loyalties but to yourself. And you're certainly not easy on the eyes, either.

The smile he slathers on is fake as can be, but you smile right back at him, reaching out to shake his hand.

"I see our celebrity guest made it here safely." His shake is firm. A little on the tight side. "Hoyt Volker. And you - I know exactly who you are."

"Thank you for having me, Mr. Volker."

As he drops back into his seat, Hoyt seems to have found something funny - he's got a still-lit cigar sitting in a tray to his side, pausing to take a drag before regarding you again.

"Polite. I like that. Cigar?" You take the offered cigar, but he doesn't move to light it. He'll... probably get to it, although the way he sits back says otherwise. "It's so rare to see manners in someone who's spent good time around Vaas."

"I know. You'd have to be crazy to manage that one, right?"

Volker is quick, rolls with the punches, but you still get in that split second of disarm when you smile at him. This time you get a full laugh, a quick bark of noise as he seems to relax further, setting his feet on his desk.

"Polite _and_ humble. You're starting to sound a little too good to be true, sweetheart."

You smile, placid as ever. "I wasn't being humble."

Hoyt chuckles, but now it's mostly for show - his eyes are sharp, and he's sizing you up like a proper opponent.

"Well, let's have a proper introduction, then." He taps his fingertips on the desk idly. "You told Buck you were born in Philadelphia."

"West Philadelphia, actually. Born and raised." You steeple your fingers in your lap. "But the playground was where I spent most of my days."

Hoyt grins. "Did you play sports?"

"I liked to shoot b-ball outside of the school."

You both share a mild laugh as Hoyt digs into his pocket, producing a sickeningly expensive looking lighter and holding it out. You have to lean across his desk to light your cigar, and that's right about when you feel him snatch a handful of your hair - he slams your face against the desk, and you have just enough time to process the cold wood against your cheek before he lifts you and does it again, this time directly on your face. A broken nose isn't anything new, and though your eyes water up, you don't react beyond a grunt as he leans in low, snarling just inches from your ear.

"Do you think this is a fucking _joke?_ Do you think I brought you all the way out here for your company?" Another slam. There's blood now, and you feel it smear across your cheek when your head makes contact with the wood again. "Stupid _shit._ "

But there's a beat. Then Hoyt is petting at the side of your head, brushing your raggedly cut hair behind your ear.

"No, no, this is a gentleman's meeting. I'm _very_ sorry about that. It's the coke, just - goes right to your head, you know?" It's lighthearted, like he's on the verge of laughter. "Gets you _fired up._ You know... speaking of..."

You've dealt with worse, but him grinding his cigar out on your cheekbone is enough to tear a strangled cry out of you, head turning in a desperate attempt to keep him from putting out your good eye. Hoyt drags your head back, all mock-friendliness as he leans in your face.

"Oh _dear._ I think that'll leave a scar. Look at me." He steers your head up, tossing the cigar aside. "I don't care what fucked up little relationship you had going with Vaas, boy. I - _look at me._ You just took a shit in my bed, and I want to know how you plan on fixing it."

"Fixing?"

" _Fixing._ " Now he lets you go, standing - when did he get that knife? He's waving it around, wandering idly back and forth like he's thinking of circling the desk. "You see, my operation runs on two levels - I call the shots, and Vaas carries them out. Now I'm down a Vaas. Tower can't stand without a base, now can it?" A huff. "Whatever reason he had to keep you alive, I _don't._ So here's what we're going to do, hm? Before we leave this room, you're going to convince me why I should let you leave it alive."

"That makes sense," you reply, and he lets out a shrill little laugh. When he speaks, though, it's barely above a growl. Maybe you're not giving him the reaction he wants.

"Does it, now? I'm so glad you approve." Hoyt sits back down, knife very visible as he eyes you. "Let's start the clock, shall we?"

But you continue to not give him what he wants, because you're silent for a long time, eyes dragging back and forth over the wood grain of his desk and the smear pattern of your blood. Hoyt picks at his nails with his knife, bounces his foot, looks at his watch, even plays a few rounds of Solitaire on his phone, but you can tell - the quiet is driving him crazy. You're not sure how long the silence lasts, but Hoyt breaks it when he slams the knife inches from your idle hand, blade digging deep into the desk as you jump hard in your seat.

"Are you stupid?" This sounds like an actual question, even if he delivers it coarsely. "Did you not understand my instructions, or are you just that goddamned crazy?"

"I get it. I just don't have any reasons," you say, and watch his eyes widen by millimeters. No one's ever been this suicidal with him before, you're sure. "Vaas isn't dead, but he's not here. I guess you could say he's the only thing that gives me purpose. If he isn't here, then all I'm really doing is killing time."

"And here Buck said you had teeth," Hoyt drawls back, reaching across the desk again. You don't fight the way he yanks you closer by your jaw, or even the feeling of his thumb running over the name carved into your cheek, although you shudder. "Did you know that he never reported you? You were never on our ledgers to begin with. Now, I can't begrudge my men a little fun here and there, but he decided to keep you. He broke the rules. All that over a little boy candy. And oh, after I found out about you? I wanted you killed - damaged goods - but _Vaas,_ Christ. You'd think I was threatening his goddamn mother."

Hoyt must catch the first flicker of genuine emotion you've felt in a while, because although you try to pull back, his grip only tightens. You don't know why the idea that Vaas was so invested in keeping you is surprising, but it's almost... touching? Imagining him posting up to the psychopath holding his reins _for you_ gets something twisting in your chest, and you _miss_ him, Christ, do you miss him. He's like wildfire, ruins everything he touches, but at least his presence keeps you warm.

"You _miss_ him," Hoyt says, brows rising. You didn't realize you were watering up, but now it's too late to try and hide it, so you focus on the way the desk digs into your stomach instead, and you listen to Hoyt talk. "Now isn't that sweet? Completely fucked, but sweet. How long have you been here, boy?"

"I don't know. Three years, maybe?"

Hoyt whistles long and low, pretending to sympathize. "And you're still alive? You're either a psychopath or a saint."

"Or very, very unlucky." You're getting used to this incredibly uncomfortable position, at least, meeting Hoyt's eye without the slightest ripple of fear. "Or stupid."

"Hell, why not all of them? Makes more sense than someone surviving more than a week with Vaas." He's mapping out all the damage Vaas has done to you, eying your scars with blatant curiosity. It _is_ kind of an accomplishment, isn't it? To make it that long? You have scars everywhere, some of them disappearing beneath the collar of your shirt. Still, you're not expecting what he says next.

"Lose the shirt." You boggle at him, and he repeats himself, nails digging into your jaw. " _Strip._ And don't get excited. I don't want to see your dick, just what he's done to you."

Now he lets you go, and you nod, hovering awkwardly in place for a moment before pulling your tank over your head. Hoyt motions for you to come around the desk, and you do, watching with anxious interest as he studies your wrecked body. Stab wounds, the spots where bones were broken, dog bites and acid and skinning and burns, everything else imaginable for one human being to do to another. You wear scars in the shape of Vaas' teeth like a necklace, old marks ringed around your throat and shoulders that Hoyt seems interested in; it isn't until he stands that you begin to draw back, tensing as he takes you by the arm and shoves you down onto his desk. _What_ doesn't quite leave your mouth before you feel the first cut across the small of your back, and you howl, gripping the edge of the desk with white knuckles as Hoyt Volker carves into you.

"You know, it's actually very difficult to find skin on you that he hasn't hacked into," Hoyt says conversationally, hand on your shoulder to keep you down. "But you were never really his, were you? You were stolen product. _My_ product."

He pauses long enough for you to suck in sharp little breaths, forcing the words out. The pain - you can handle pain. You're more than capable of handling pain. "You're - leaving your own mark."

"Clever girl! No wonder he took such a shine to you." It's mocking, but at the same time, you feel his rough fingers dig into your hip, and it makes you tense all over. "But I'm sure he had a much simpler reason to begin with, didn't he? You must have been pretty before all of... _this._ You wouldn't _believe_ the demand we have for pretty fuckable American boys. College age, sometimes high school. It's like getting a puppy - you want to start young."

"Are you _done?_ "

He's still cutting, and you have your forehead crushed against your forearm, hiding your face as you bear through it. If this were Vaas, you would be fighting; you would be twisting and snarling and making him pin you down, making him _make_ you take it. Without him, there's no catalyst. What's another scar to dozens? You don't _care,_ and before long Hoyt finishes, whistling.

"Took it like a champ, didn't you? Buck wasn't exaggerating when he said you were sturdy." Hoyt slides his palm over your fresh wounds, leaving a slick trail up the line of your spine as his fingers squeeze at the back of your neck. "I didn't even have to hold you down. Taught you to like it, didn't he? But that's the only way to survive Vaas, isn't it?" He's in your ear now, knife pressed to your cheek. "Learning to like it."

You didn't realize you were half hard, but the way he squeezes you through your fatigues makes that fact painfully apparent. You manage not to buck into it, but now he's groping purposefully, working you up. You vaguely acknowledge that he tells the guard to fuck off, but through the haze of pain and embarrassment and _apathy,_ you manage to struggle lightly when he gathers your wrists behind your back. There's shifting, rustling - and then he's winding what you imagine is his belt tight around your wrists, locking them in place behind your back. You try and straighten, but it's only invitation for him to snatch you by your hair and drag you along with him as he sits down. You glance up from between his knees, questioning.

"You didn't think I was going to fuck you, did you?" A snort. "I wouldn't use the same hole as Vaas if it was the last one on the goddamn planet. But Buck tells me you're multi-talented."

You just - _stare._ Vaas is alive, isn't he? You immediately shut the train of thought down because the alternative - being trapped, fucked, humiliated until your inevitable messy, meaningless death - is too much to bear. He _is_ coming back, and when he does, you'll kill him properly, and then you can die satisfied.

Peace.

But until then, you're almost eye level with Hoyt's crotch as he rocks against his palm, already on his way to hard himself. You just want him to fuck your face and be done with it, but he only plays with his zipper.

"Unzip me." When you struggle against the belt, he pulls you in by your hair. "With your teeth. Give me a show."

It's something someone taught you to do well - Buck or Vaas, you can't remember. You keep your eyes level with his stomach while he works himself out of his pants - commando, of course - and gives himself a few test strokes, knife still very much in the other hand. He brings it close now, pressing the edge against your bottom lip and lightly dragging at it.

"Now, I'm not going to come up with some _horrible thing_ I'll do to you if I feel teeth. I'm sure your imagination can fill in the blanks." The blade slides between your lips, then turns, acting as a makeshift stopper as he presses it vertically between your teeth. "Now, open wide for me."

He's semi-hard, so you have something to work with when he guides himself over your tongue, sighing. For a moment, Hoyt just stares at you with his cock in your mouth and his blade between your teeth, watching you drool around him for a few long moments before he pulls the knife free and fists your hair. You're better than he expected, if the sudden groan he lets out when you start is any indicator - you keep the suction tight and let him bump the back of your throat, his hips working slowly into it as you bob your head, and soon he's hissing praise as you kiss your way down to his balls.

"Christ. And here I was worried you'd be disappointing." He pulls you back up and down onto him again, and you let him keep going until he bottoms out, fucking your throat slow. "But between Buck and Vaas, I'm sure you've had your practice. You - _ah!_ "

You pull back up, sucking hard, and he completely loses his train of thought. (No great loss there, considering how sick of his voice you're getting.) Completely loses his composure, too, head falling back with a strangled moan, and you allow yourself a slow coil of satisfaction at that, bobbing down deep to do it again. He's actually got his hand over his eyes now, leaned heavy on the armrest of his chair while you work his cock the way Buck taught you to - Hoyt's dick has a nice shape, but Buck's was bigger, and you managed to choke that thing down many, many times. This is nothing in comparison, even when he starts to move into it again, teeth gritted as he looks down at you through his fingers and thrusts steadily down your throat.

"You're enjoying this," he says, voice husky, and you don't bother trying to answer. The guy would probably much rather listen to his own voice than yours anyway. "Suppose Vaas being gone means you're desperate for decent cock. I could get used to this arrangement, you know."

You're fucking sure he could. You focus on getting him off instead, humming as you work, and push him to the point where he starts to lose control - it's normally your favorite part, and even now, with this man, the muscles low in your gut clench when he moans and wraps his hand around the back of your neck, keeping you from pulling back too much while he starts to fuck your throat in genuine. That's when you let the technique slip in favor of being a tight, warm hole for him to come in, because that's what you're good for here - in fact, it's probably all that's keeping you alive.

The son of a bitch pulls back a little when he comes before cramming himself down your throat again, because it was apparently important to him to make sure you had to taste it. You swallow obediently around the rest, waiting for Hoyt to ease himself out with a bone-deep, ridiculously pleased sigh, and go back to staring absently at some point on his stomach. He pets you for a few moments, quiet. Lights another cigar.

"I'm still trying to figure out what I should do with you." He pets you again, runs his fingers through your hair in a way that makes you shiver faintly (which mostly just pisses you off). Another long pet. "I"m sure someone on this island wouldn't mind your company. It's a better deal than your last, isn't it?"

The idea has something in your chest twisting in revulsion. With Vaas, it was different - you're about to say that, _with Vaas it was different,_ when you hear the door. You don't bother turning around to look; it doesn't have any importance to you who it is or what they have to say.

You think so, anyway, until you hear Buck's voice. The light, _pleased_ little hum as he watches Hoyt press your cheek to the inside of his thigh, keeping you in place.

"Deary me. Am I interrupting something?"

"We were just getting to know each other." Hoyt gestures for him to come in. "I would introduce you, but I hear you've already met."

"None taken. M'boy here and I are good friends." You hear his approaching footsteps, the whole of you tensing further with each one. "Aren't we, precious?"

Volker isn't expecting you to bolt, but Buck is. You tear yourself from the former's grasp and vault the desk in an effort to throw off the latter, only for the world to spin as he catches you in the gut and flips your weight, sending you to the floor. You're barely on hands and knees again before his weight is crushing you back down, and your learned fear turns into full-blown panic, gets you kicking and fighting as he grips you by the back of the neck and holds you down. You shred your nails on the wooden floor in your mindless struggling, and the noise you make is hard to describe - it isn't screaming, isn't shouting, isn't so articulate as pleading nor so mindless as snarling. Actually, it sounds a lot like the dogs at camp whenever a jaguar creeps in a little too close for comfort. Fearful barking.

_Perrito._ Christ.

"Now, now. You act like you're not happy to see me." His weight shifts, and you can feel him press his crotch against your ass, threatening you wordlessly. "And after all the laughs we've had together! If you're not careful, you're going to hurt my feelings."

His grip is like iron, and he knows the marks he's left - there's an old one in your shoulder where he cut deep into the muscle - _oops, clumsy me!_ \- and he grinds his palm into it now, chuckling at your choked scream as pain lances down your arm. Now he's _kneading_ at your nape, mock-soothing.

"He may not look it now, but this one used to be a lively little shit. Fought like a goddamn animal every time. Every. Single. Time." The hand on your neck slides into your hair instead, lifting your head high enough off the ground for him to speak in your ear. "Still can. I can see it in your eyes, mate. Getting the tinglies jut thinking about it, if we're being honest."

"Fuck off," you manage, throwing an elbow - you connect with his ribs, and for just an instant, the balance between you shifts enough for you to shoulder him off, making a grab for the knife at his hip. You've got your hand around it and have it out of its sheath before he grabs your wrist and twists it at an angle, your hand seizing and losing its grip. You've got another hand, though, and now you have him down - he's half on his side and you flatten his back against the floor when you lunge, your free hand curling around his throat. "You fucking piece of shit I'll kill you _kill you--_ "

Mindless babbling. You're not even registering what comes out of your mouth at this point, because you're too busy mapping out his panicked pulse beneath your thumb, crushing your bodies together to make it harder for him to pull you away with his other hand. He'll always have the physical advantage, though, and your frenzy can only go so far when he's got both of your hands by the wrists - Buck throws your combined weight and slams his knee up into the space between you, connecting with your gut hard enough to make you retch, and plants his ass on your waist, holding your wrists above your head in one hand. You're left wild-eyed and panting, a potent cocktail of fear and _hate_ keeping you moving long after you realize it's hopeless. Buck, breathing hard, laughs faintly at your struggling.

The backhand is much less kind, and you neck immediately begins to ache from how fast your head whipped to the side. Buck is smiling in that chimp-like way of his as you turn your head and spit a mix of blood and spit at him. After he punches you, you can't tell what expression he has on through the dizzy throb behind your eyes.

"--how he lasted so long with Vaas."

"--goddamn crazy. Makes a man resilient." The words are disconnected. Behind your closed lid, you visualize them one by one, trying to parse the meaning. "A _fighter._ \--care of him."

"You can feed him to dogs for all I give a shit. Just keep him out of the way."

"You hear that, mate? Looks like I'm sitting." Buck's hand tightens around your throat now, and you're far too gone to put up a decent struggle - you just shake your head, _no,_ hands curling above your head until your knuckles whiten. "Just you and uncle Buck havin' a grand fucking time. Just like old times, eh? Only this time around, _I_ make the rules."

You don't want to die, but being trapped under Buck's thumb is a far worse fate. It doesn't matter whether or not Vaas is dead if you end up stuck in this fucker's sex dungeon forever.

"He's not dead," you rasp, looking over Volker's shoulder, and still, no one has anything to say for a moment. You think it's because of what you've just said, but Hoyt is _looking_ at something, and Buck cranes his neck to look at it too. They're speaking, but your vision has started to prickle and blacken at the edges, and even though the sounds are there, none of them make sense - you let your stare slide to the ceiling instead, waiting for the all-too-familiar moment of blacking out.

"You're touching my shit."

The voice makes your heart stop. The other voices don't make sense, and soon his doesn't either, but you watch Vaas stroll into view and lean into your field of vision. He looks rougher, scratched up and bruised, his hair grown out a little more than he usually keeps it, but there's no doubt it's him - particularly when he sets a boot on your solar plexus and keeps your chest compressed even as Buck retreats. Even as the three of them talk, he keeps his eyes on you, taking in the way you weakly grip at his leg like you don't want him to go.

For the first time since you ended up in this tropical hellhole, you're actually a little pissed off when you black out.


End file.
